FHE  A  AN  OF 


OCTAVE  THANET 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 


HE    CLASPED    HER    TIGHTLY,   WHILE    THEY    COMFORTED    EACH    OTHER 


P.  476 


THE 
MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 


By 
OCTAVE  THANET 

Author  of 

Stories  of  a  Western  Town,  The  Missionary  Sheriff 
A  Book  of  True  Lovers,  etc. 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

LUCIUS  WOLCOTT  HITCHCOCK 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1905 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


SEPTEMBER 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  &  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS  AND  PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


m 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

R.  T.  F. 

WORKINGMAN  AND  GENTLEMAN 


285355 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
JOHNNY-IVAN 

CONTENTS  *AGE 

I    PEGGY  3 

II    THE  HOUSE  OF  WINSLOW  16 

III  THE  GOLDEN  AGE  36 

IV  THE  FAIRPORT  ART  MUSEUM  58 
V    A  MESSAGE  FROM  RUSSIA  74 

VI    As  GALLEY  SLAVES,  NOT  COMRADES  86 

VII    IN  WAR  You  MAY  102 

VIII    ST.  LUKE'S  "4 

IX    THE  END  OF  THE  GOLDEN  AGE  128 


BOOK  II 
IVAN 

I    STRANGERS  YET  145 

II    FATHER  AND  SON  *74 

III  BY  THE  TERMS  OF  THE  WILL  189 

IV  THE  THOUGHTS  OF  YOUTH  ARE  LONG,  LONG 

THOUGHTS  2°4 

V    THE  SOUTHERN  WAY  216 

VI    THE  PRINCESS  OLGA'S  DAY  239 


BOOK  III 
JOHN 

I    PEAU  DE  CHAGRIN  251 

II    A" SCRAP"  273 

III  THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  284 

IV  IN  HOSPITAL  300 
V    "  ROGER  MACK"  3^ 

VI    TYLER  PASSES  33I 

VII    JOHNNY  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND  337 

VIII    AN  DIE  FERNE  GELIEBTE  361 

IX    HAST  THOU  FOUND  ME,  O  MINE  ENEMY?  381 

X    AMELIA  ANN,  HER  HORSE  39i 

XI    His  FATHER'S  OWN  SON  404 

XII    As  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  NOAH  413 

XIII  IN  THE  CAMP  OF  THE  ENEMY  425 

XIV  EXTRACTS  FROM  JOHNNY'S  LETTERS  TO 

ROGER  MACK  431 

XV    WHEN  AMELIA  ANN  WAS" IT"  441 

XVI    THE  END  OF  THE  DUEL  452 

XVII      JOSIAH  WlNSLOW'S  DAY  465 


1  Spirits  of  old  that  bore  me 

And  set  me,  meek  of  mind, 

Between  great  deeds  before  me, 

And  deeds  as  great  behind, 

Knowing  Humanity  my  star, 

As  forth  of  old  I  ride, 
O  help  me  wear  with  every  scar 

Honor  at  eventide ! " 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 


BOOK   I 

JOHNNY-IVAN 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 
CHAPTER  I 

PEGGY 

^ 

In  the  early  eighties  Fairport  considered  herself 
a  city;  but  she  was,  in  fact,  an  overgrown,  delight 
ful  town  sprawling  among  the  low  hills  of  the  Mis 
sissippi  Valley. 

Near  enough  the  town's  origin  still  to  distinguish 
its  outlines,  but  remote  enough  to  idealize  them, 
the  old  settlers  were  a  power,  and  could  be  found  of 
a  sunny  afternoon  at  Luke  Barrel!' s  livery  stable, 
busy  with  the  apotheosis  of  the  days  when  they  shot 
quail  before  breakfast;  true  brotherly  love  pre 
vailed  among  men;  and  the  river  was  the  highway 
of  commerce. 

Despite  the  pioneers'  lamentations,  Fairport  was 
a  kindly  town,  where  every  one  went  to  the  High 
School  before  his  lot  in  life  gave  him  college  or  work 
for  his  daily  bread;  and  old  acquaintance  was  not 
forgot.  Like  most  middle-western  towns,  also,  ob 
scure  though  they  may  be,  it  was  touched  by  all  the 
great  issues  of  the  world.  This,  indeed,  is  the  sig- 

3 


4  THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 

nificant  trait  of  western  life;  to  feel  vividly  things 
which  concern  not  the  petty  affairs  of  the  indi 
vidual,  but  the  welfare  of  the  commonwealth  or  the 
race. 

This  breadth  of  sympathy  and  of  vision  is  the 
poetry  of  the  Westerner's  material  and  laborious 
life,  redeeming  his  crudity,  his  vanity  and  his  often 
brutal  energy.  Fairport,  because  of  it,  was  thor 
oughly  western;  its  humor  and  its  generosity  also 
were  western;  but  at  first  glance  it  seemed  singu 
larly  unlike  the  typical  town  of  its  section.  It  was 
rich;  it  was  conservative,  almost  slow  moving  in 
some  directions;  it  was  not  bustling  or  breezy  or 
lightsomely  braggart;  it  never  had  a  "boom."  In 
the  early  eighties  the  down-town  streets  must  have 
worn  an  idyllic  air,  paved  with  soft  lime  macadam, 
disturbed  by  no  harsher  noise  than  the  rattle  of 
farm-wagons  or  the  occasional  whistle  and  rumble 
of  a  train,  and  scarcely  darkened  by  the  two-  and 
three-story  shops.  There  was  green  grass  a-plenty 
as  well  as  trees  about  the  yellow  jail  and  the  red 
brick  court-house,  rearing  its  Corinthian  pillars 
above  a  little  flock  of  justice-seekers  or  attorneys, 
who  were  used  to  tilt  their  pine  arm-chairs  (pol 
ished  smooth  by  occupancy)  while  they  leisurely 
awaited  a  moment  of  strong  enough  interest  to 
draw  them  back  to  the  court-room. 

Dwelling-houses  dotted  the  hillsides.  Fairport 
contained  some  brick  houses,  ample  and  of  a  pleas 
ant  homeliness,  built  by  southern  settlers  after  the 
St.  Louis  fashion,  with  steep  roofs  and  a  stay-wall 
between  the  chimneys,  which  perched  on  the  gable 
peaks  like  miniature  barbicans;  and  there  were  a 


PEGGY  5 

few  grandiose  Georgian  mansions.  Of  these  the 
Winslow  house  caught  the  eye  most  quickly. 

It  was  a  big  pile,  with  the  lofty  portico  which  our 
great-grandfathers  loved.  Its  fluted  Corinthian  pil 
lars  and  garlanded  pediment  shone  white  through 
the  trees;  below,  the  flowering  terraces  stepped 
down  to  the  soft  greenery  of  orchard  and  pasture; 
above,  the  house  was  backed  by  wooded  hills. 
"Atherton's  Folly"  the  Fairport  people  had  named 
the  place ;  for  the  house  was  built  by  the  first  mayor 
of  the  town  (Atherton,  not  Fairport,  then),  a 
man  of  vast  schemes  that  had  discounted  the  future 
too  lavishly;  wherefore  he  came  to  grief.  His  own 
downfall  he  could  have  borne,  being  a  stanch  and 
stout  fighter;  but  the  town  was  crippled  a  while 
by  the  crash,  and  this  broke  his  heart;  he  only 
lived  a  few  months  after  his  failure.  For  years  the 
house  stood  empty,  gray  and  haggard  with  neglect, 
while  time  charred  and  twisted  its  shingles.  Final 
ly,  Winslow,  the  plow  manufacturer,  bought  the 
estate  for  a  song ;  and  it  began  a  new  career  of  pros 
perity,  as  Overlook. 

That  was  fourteen  years  ago,  in  the  late  sixties; 
now,  in  1881,  a  little  smiling  pale  boy  played  in  the 
gardens  and  fed  the  pigeons.  If  he  were  pale,  he 
was  not  languid;  his  dark  eyes  sparkled  and  his 
thick  curls  danced  in  the  wind  with  his  running; 
and  his  nurse  grumbled  to  her  companions,  "Oh, 
yes,  Yonny-Ivan,  he's  good-tempered,  but  if  he 
git  one  his  naughty  times — my  crachus,  he  get 
arms  an'  legs  so  stiff  as  iron !"  Sometimes  a  stout 
man  of  fifty,  whose  black  eyebrows  looked  the 
blacker  for  his  graying  hair,  would  pace  at  the  little 


6  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

fellow's  side.  Often  his  thick  brows  were  bent,  but 
always  a  ringer  hung  downward  for  the  little  hand. 
Sometimes  a  slender  and  beautiful  woman  would 
walk  with  the  boy,  bending  a  lovely  dark  head  and 
often  stooping  to  give  him  a  quick  caress.  Who 
ever  his  companion  chanced  to  be,  the  servants 
would  glance  after  the  pair  curiously.  Every  one 
in  Fairport  knew  that  the  Winslows  were  not  a 
happy  pair  and  that  their  differences  ran  high  over 
their  only  child.  His  very  name  hinted  their  com 
bats.  His  Russian  mother  called  him  "Ivan,"  or 
Vanya,*  his  American  father  "Johnny" ;  while  the 
servants  fell  upon  the  just  compromise  of  "Johnny- 
Ivan." 

Johnny-Ivan  knew  nothing  of  the  disputes  be 
tween  his  mother,  whom  he  adored,  and  his  father, 
whom  he  respected  and  very  cordially  liked.  His 
beaming  little  face  reflected  only  sunshine. 

Now,  when  Johnny-Ivan  and  the  writer  are  first 
keeping  company  together,  he  is  nine  years  old,  so 
big  that  he  can  almost  dress  himself,  wears  his 
knickerbockers  attached  to  his  shoulders  by  suspen 
ders  the  small  image  of  his  father's,  and  has  come 
to  hate  his  babyish  big  collars.  Only  a  month  be 
fore,  he  had  a  more  carking  grief  in  his  curls,  at 
which  the  boys  of  the  Patch  used  to  jeer;  but, 
after  deep  consideration,  he  surrendered  to  an  im 
pulsive  moment  and  snipped  them  off  himself. 
Thereby  came  his  first  movement  of  comradeship 
toward  his  father ;  his  mother  had  almost  wept  and 
he  had  been  reduced  to  black,  sticky  depths  of  re- 

*  Russian  diminutive  of  Ivan. 


PEGGY  7 

morse  in  consequence ;  but  his  father  had  smiled  all 
over  his  face. 

"I  like  the  looks  of  you,  Johnny;  the  Mickies 
were  right;  curls  belong  to  girls  and  babies,  not 
to  big  boys,"  said  he. 

"But  mamma  feels  awful!"  Johnny-Ivan's  con 
science  forced  out  of  him. 

"Oh,  naturally ;  Aunty  will  tell  you  it  was  dread 
fully  naughty  of  you,  too;  but  they're  ladies;  they 
don't  know  how  men  feel ;  you  and  I  are  men." 

Johnny-Ivan  gravely  wagged  his  little  cropped 
head.  Here  was  a  father  worth  having ! 

He  almost  told  him  about  the  new  book  which 
he  had  discovered  in  the  library, — almost,  not 
quite;  confidence  is  a  frail  plant  in  children,  need 
ing  tedious  nurture  and  tendance  ere  it  flower. 
Johnny-Ivan  went  away,  silently,  to  his  new  treas 
ure.  An  hour  later  his  mother  discovered  him  on 
the  floor,  both  elbows  propped  on  the  leaves  of  a 
huge  folio.  He  answered  her  query  about  the 
book  with  a  matter  of  fact,  "Richard  Three." 

"Who  wrote  it?"  said  she,  amused. 

"Shak-es-pary,"  spelled  the  reader. 

"Mon  Dieu!  do  you  understand  it?" 

"Not  everything"  confessed  the  little  boy,  "but 
I  like  it  awful  much !  it's  all  full  of  kings  and  queens 
and  fightings."  Johnny-Ivan  kept  a  martial  soul. 

Yet  on  this  day,  the  first  day  you  and  I  see 
Johnny-Ivan,  his  ardor  for  brave  doings  has 
brought  humiliation  upon  him.  -Really  it  has  been 
responsible  for  his  first  quarrel  with  his  first  com 
rade;  and  he  is  standing  on  the  Winslow  side  of 
the  high  fence  dividing  the  Overlook  property  from 


8  THE   MAN   OF   THE  HOUR 

the  Winter  place,  pressing  a  dismal  little  face 
against  the  pickets.  His  eyes  are  dark  with  wistful- 
ness  ;  his  heart  is  full  of  woe. 

Hilma,  his  nurse,  has  run  up  to  him,  having 
loitered  so  long  over  her  lace-making  and  been  so 
intent  upon  her  linen  wheels  that  she  did  not  note 
his  vanishing;  wherefore  it  is  only  after  a  hunt 
through  the  stables,  the  chicken  houses  and  the 
garden  that  she  has  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  blue 
blouse  and  white  collar,  and  appeared  before  him 
breathless,  in  the  natural  ill-humor  of  a  person  who 
has  been  frightened. 

"Yonny-Ivan,"  cried  Hilma,  "you  is  worse  as  a 
rat  to  run  'way.  I  tell  you'  mummer.  Wot  you  do 
ing  here?" 

"Nothing,"  muttered  Johnny-Ivan,  scowling. 

"I  bet  you  looking  for  Peggy.  And  you  was 
looking  for  Peggy,  yesterday,  too,  wasn't  you? 
And  didn't  she  go  by  yoost  upturnin'  her  nose  at 
you!" 

No  response  beyond  a  wriggle  of  pain  and  impa 
tience.  Relentlessly  the  inquisitor  turned  the  screws 
again. 

"Wasn't  you  here,  day  before  too, — twicet?  and 
she  tossed  her  red  head  at  you.  And  didn't  you  take 
over  your  new  little  spade  and  your  red  pail  and 
your  best  necktie,  you  naughty  boy?  I  donno  vot 
you'  mummer  say — " 

"Oh,  mamma  don't  mind," — the  boy  shrugged 
himself  out  of  some  reminiscent  attentions  to  his 
cravat, — "mamma  letted  me  give  the  red  one  to  a 
poor  little  boy  on  the  street." 

Hilma  put  her  own  opinion  into  Swedish,  get- 


PEGGY  9 

ting1  back  to  her  auditor,  however,  with  the  English 
addition :  "Well,  you'  popper  he  mind !" 

"Anyhow,  Peggy  didn't  take  them,"  sighed  the 
boy. 

"Vot  you  do  to  Peggy  make  her  so  mad?" 

The  boy  only  squeezed  his  slim  body  closer  to 
the  pickets. 

Hilma,  seating  herself,  took  out  an  interminable 
piece  of  lace  to  begin  her  crocheting.  "Veil,  any 
how,  sie  a  mean  little  copperhead,"  said  Hilma 
artfully. 

The  boy,  as  she  expected,  fired  at  once.  "No,  she 
ain't,  neither ;  I  madded  her  first." 

"Oh,  you  did, — vot  you  do  ?" 

"I — I  bited  her,"  confessed  the  little  boy,  with  a 
deep  flush  of  shame. 

"Oh  my!  Ain't  you  de  bad  boy,  sometime!  7 
helige  verlden!  I  guess  you  come  to  git  hanged 
for  dot  ter'ble  temper  you  got  sometime,  Yonny- 
Ivan!  An'  sie  ain't  do  notings  to  mad  you?" 

The  boy  looked  miserable ;  even  when  one  is  only 
nine  and  doesn't  so  much  as  know  the  word  by 
sight,  one  may  have  foregleams  of  chivalry; 
Johnny-Ivan  hated  to  cast  a  reflection  on  Peggy, 
whom  he  had  wronged  and  before  whom  he  would 
willingly  abase  himself;  at  the  same  time,  it  was 
ghastly  to  have  Hilma  think  that  there  was  no 
palliation  for  his  shameful  behavior,  which,  like  the 
sins  of  later  years,  somehow  loomed  up  so  much 
bigger  and  blacker  and  uglier  when  confessed  than 
when  only  remembered.  After  a  second  of  anguish, 
he  stammered  out  his  compromise. 

"She  didn't  do  nothin'.    She  just  said  things." 


10  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"Vot  tings?"    Hilma  would  not  be  denied. 

"Well,  she  said — she  said  I  wouldn't  be  no  good 
in  a  Blood  Feud." 

"Vot's  a  Blood  Feud?" 

"Why,  don't  you  know  ?  Those  things  they  have 
down  South;  when  somebody  shoots  your  grand 
father  and  your  father  shoots  him  and  his  son 
shoots  you — like  that.  Peggy's  father's  uncle  got 
killed  that  way,  right  in  the  street  in  Memphis,  op 
posite  the  park  where  the  squirrels  play." 

Hilma  grunted  a  comprehension  far  from  ap 
proval.  "I  hope  you  don't  be,"  she  remarked,  while 
her  head  wagged  gloomily  over  her  lace,  "but  I 
don't  be  so  sure." 

Johnny-Ivan  brightened;  it  was  evident  that  it 
had  wrung  his  soul  to  be  considered  so  ignominious- 
ly  peaceful.  He  opened  his  heart  a  little  wider. 

"It  was  only  because,  you  know,  a  boy  on  the 
Patch,  he  sassed  Peggy  and  said  her  papa  was  a 
old  rebel  and  ought  to  be  hanged,  and  she  had 
red  hair,  and  I  fought  him  and  hit  him  and  he 
rolled  over  the  bank.  It  was  there  in  Winters',  you 
know,  where  the  broke  glass  tumblers  and  tin  cans 
are  in  the  ravine;  and  he  didn't  have  no  shoes  on, 
and  he  cut  his  foot  on  a  piece  of  glass  and  it  was 
bleeding  awful,  and  so  I  run  down  to  help  him  and 
said  I'd  go  for  the  doctor,  for  I  didn't  know  maybe 
he'd  bleed  to  deff  or  have  the  locker-jaw, — you 
can't  tell,  mammy  says,  if  you  run  a  rusty  nail  in 
you,  but  you'll  git  locker- jaw;  that's  just  like  she 
says.  But  Peggy  said  you  can't  bleed  to  deff  from 
cutting  your  toe,  nohow,  and  it  was  glass  and  not 
rusty  nails;  and  anyhow  he  was  our  foe  and  I  was 


PEGGY  1 1 

pusserlanimous  and  ornery  to  go  and — and — what 
I  did." 

"Vot  did  you  done?"  Hilma's  face  expressed 
no  human  interest  and  she  counted  in  Swedish  be 
tween  her  questions,  yet  dimly  Johnny-Ivan  was 
aware  of  sympathy.  Nevertheless,  he  hung  his  head 
in  shame,  as  he  confessed:  "I  tied  his  foot  up  in 
my  hangkerchif." 

"Was  it  one  you'  new  vuns?"  Hilma  asked  very 
sternly. 

"No,  Hilma,  truly  it  wasn't.  It  was  one  of  my 
real  old  ones." 

"Humph!  It  yoost  happen  dot  way.  You  take 
you'  new  vuns,  yoost  so  quick.  But  Peggy  didn't 
done  right." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  did,  Hilma,  that's  the  way  you  got 
to  do  if  you're  quality  and  live  down  South !" 
said  Johnny-Ivan.  His  eyes  lightened  and  he 
smiled.  "Maybe  she'll  speak  to  me  to-day!"  he 
cried.  Hilma  could  see  that  his  lips  quivered  with 
excitement,  and  his  little  fingers  gripped  the  pickets 
more  tightly. 

"Dot's  sie  now,  ain't  it?"  said  Hilma,  "koomin* 
down  drive."  There  before  them,  just  glimmer 
ing  past  the  clump  of  lilacs  on  the  turn  of  the  drive, 
was  Peggy,  herself;  Peggy,  in  her  new  white  leg 
horn  hat  with  the  flowered  ribbon  and  her  mother's 
red  parasol  shimmering  above  the  hat.  Her  white 
frock  was  dainty-fresh  and  ruffled  bravely;  nor  did 
it  in  the  least  abate  the  impressiveness  of  the  tiny 
dame  that  she  held  her  splendid  sun  protector  at  the 
wrong  angle.  The  boy  caught  his  breath  with  the 
beauty  of  her. 


12  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"My!  don't  the  sun  make  her  hair  red!'*  said 
Hilma. 

Stepping  daintily  over  the  dusty  road,  her  daz 
zling  head  well  in  the  air,  Miss  approached.  She 
was  taller  than  the  boy — by  good  right,  being  two 
years  older;  thus  she  could  lower  her  eyelids  in  his 
direction.  The  little  fellow  bent  quickly  and  fished 
a  basket  from  out  the  long  grass, — an  enticing 
basket  with  a  load  of  figs. 

"I  got  some  figs  for  you,  Peggy!"  cried  he;  he 
tried  to  make  his  voice  bold  and  careless. 

Not  the  slightest  sign  of  hearing  was  vouchsafed 
by  the  haughty  damsel;  she  looked  past  the  peace- 
offering  and  the  little  arms  which  held  it,  to  Hilma's 
stolid  front. 

"Good  evening,  Hilma/'  she  cried  with  affable 
sweetness,  and  passed  on. 

"Tantane — "  well,  we  all  know  Virgil's  moan, 
cruelty  comes  to  women  early.  Peggy  did  not  cast 
a  glance  at  the  little  figure  or  the  wistful  eyes  and 
the  mouth  which  would  tremble  in  spite  of  him.  He 
began  to  whistle. 

"Well,  if  sie  ain't  up-stuck !"  cried  Hilma. 

"It's  just  keeping  her  word ;  she  said  she'd  never 
speak  to  me  again,"  explained  Johnny-Ivan;  "she's 
got  to  keep  her  word,  you  know," — then,  choking 
back  a  shake  in  his  voice  and  quite  forgetting  his 
logic :  "Maybe  she'll  speak  to  me  to-morrow!"  he 
cried  hopefully. 

Now,  as  it  happened,  Peggy  the  ruthless  felt 
what  seemed  to  her  degrading  twinges  of  pity;  be 
sides,  Johnny,  although  so  much  younger  and,  of 
course,  babyish,  was  nicer  to  play  with  than  anybody 


PEGGY  13 

else;  he  made  believe  better  than  anybody,  and  on 
the  donkey  as  Sir  Lancelot  charging  on  the  paynim 
foe,  or  with  his  father's  cane  as  Ivan  the  Terrible, 
he  was  perfectly  splendid;  Peggy,  like  many  an 
other  proud  heart,  wasn't  anywhere  near  the  height 
of  hauteur  that  she  assumed;  but  she  was  in  the 
chains  of  her  own  will — there,  again  like  many  an 
other. 

"I  said  I  wouldn't  speak  to  him  again  to  save  his 
life;  and  I  won't !"  determined  Peggy,  shutting  her 
teeth  and  walking  hard  on  her  heels,  such  was  her 
determination  and  stress  of  soul.  She  did  not  notice 
the  two  men,  who  had  been  raking  the  grass,  drop 
their  rakes  and  gesticulate.  Neither  did  she  get  any 
thing  from  them  save  a  shout — they  were  too  far 
away  for  articulate  words.  But  she  did  hear  a 
pounding  thump  behind  her,  and  a  horrible  hoarse 
bellow.  She  flung  a  startled  glance  around  the 
handle  of  the  red  parasol.  She  was  a  fearless  little 
creature;  but  it  wasn't  in  flesh  and  blood  not  to  be 
terrified  by  the  great  horned  mass,  with  its  glaring 
eyes,  bounding  down  the  grassy  slope,  straight  at 
her!  Her  single  wild  sweep  of  the  landscape  told 
her  that  the  men  were  too  far  to  help,  and  the 
fence  was  a  wall  of  bristling  pickets!  But  that 
same  vision  of  terror  had  shown  Johnny-Ivan  fran 
tically  tugging  at  the  pickets  and  crying  out  at 
Hilma's  unready  motions:  "Hurry!  hurry!  knock 
'em  with  the  big  stone !  Peggy !  here !  here!" 

Instinctively  she  ran  for  the  opening  in  the  fence. 
She  felt  the  hot  dust  of  the  brute's  onset;  her  heart 
pounded  in  her  breast  as  her  feet  flashed  across  the 
road.  Suddenly  a  form  leaped  before  her ;  the  para- 


14  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

sol  was  wrenched  from  her  hand  and  made  a  crim 
son  splash  through  the  air. 

"Get  down!  get  down!  Crawl  through!  Pull 
her,  Hilma!"  She  knew  Johnny-Ivan's  sweet  high 
pipe,  shrill  now  with  intensity.  She  obeyed;  but  in 
the  very  act  of  kneeling,  her  wits  righted  them 
selves,  and  she  snatched  Johnny's  blue  shoulder  and 
thrust  it  at  Hilma.  Before  the  boy  could  resist — 
if  he  had  thought  of  any  such  action — a  strong 
hand  pulled  him  through  the  gap  and  returned 
swiftly  for  the  same  service  to  Peggy.  Peggy's 
skirts,  sad  to  say,  caught  on  one  of  the  loosened 
nails ;  but  Hilma,  usually  so  severe  on  the  careless 
treatment  of  clothes,  never  slackened  her  mighty 
grasp.  Rending,  tearing,  bruising,  scratching, 
Peggy  was  pulled  through  the  fence.  On  the  safe 
side,  she  caught  her  breath;  her  eyes  glued  to  the 
whirling  cloud  of  dust  streaked  with  red  and  the 
huge  dun  shape  impelling  the  cloud. 

"Oh !  look  at  mamma's  pah'sol !"  wailed  Peggy. 
"Silas  is  just  stomping  and  tearing  it  all  to  frazzles ! 
An'  I  didn't  ask  for  it  neither,  Mymy!  mymy! 
won't  mammy  chastise  me !  she'll  be  fahly  rarin'  an' 
chargin'!"  Her  clouded  face  cleared  in  a  second. 
"I  reckon  that  Silas  would  be  doing  me  that  same 
way  wasn't  it  fo'  you  t'rowing  the  pah'sol  at  him, 
Jo'nivan." 

Johnny-Ivan  blushed  proudly,  rinding  no  expres 
sion  save  a  feeble  grin. 

There  are  weak  natures  that  might  have  been  dis 
concerted  by  such  a  situation :  having  a  scorned  ex- 
friend  risk  his  life  to  rescue  them  from  danger. 
Peggy  was  not  one  of  these;  she  felt  that  she  had 


PEGGY  15 

been  relieved  of  her  rash  vow  in  a  thoroughly  cred 
itable  manner,  and  rejoiced  without  dissimulation. 

"Jo'nivan,"  said  she,  in  a  dignified  tone,  "you 
done — I  mean  you  have  saved  my  life;  of  co'se  I 
was  obliged  to  thank  you ;  and  so  I  had  to  speak  to 
you;  and  once  I  broke  my  word,  why — why,  I  am 
just  naturally  obliged  to  be  going  on  speaking  to 
you.  Hadn't  it  been  for  that  I  reckon  I  couldn't 
ever  in  this  world,  again,  have  pahted  lips  with 
you!" 

"But  you  did  speak  to  me,  Peggy !"  Johnny-Ivan 
interrupted  in  some  trepidation;  "it's  all  broked 
now !" 

"Of  co'se  it  is ;  that's  what  I  say ;  so,  now — I  beg 
you'  pahdon,  Jo'nivan." 

"Oh-h!"  breathed  Johnny-Ivan,  deeply  embar 
rassed. 

"Don't  say,  'Oh!'  say:  'No  gentleman  could  ask 
more,  sah !' ' 

Johnny-Ivan  readily  repeated  the  words,  and 
with  equal  readiness,  when  prompted,  apologized 
for  the  original  cause  of  offense. 

"Now  le's  make  up,"  said  Peggy  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  "Say,  Hilma,  can't  you  mend  my  frock  ?  and 
my  leg's  bleeding,  too;  but  you  better  leave  that; 
mammy  won't  be  so  mad  if  she  sees  I  been  hurt. 
Say,  Jo'nivan,  wasn't  there  a  basket  of  figs  ?" 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   HOUSE   OF   WINSLOW 

"Josiah  Curwen  Winslow  was  born  in  Merfield, 
Massachusetts,  April  i,  1830,  eighth  in  descent  from 
the  Pilgrim  Father,  Governor  Edward  Winslow. 
Through  his  mother  (Miss  Lydia  Ann  Curwen), 
our  distinguished  fellow  citizen  claims  descent  from 
the  first  families  of  Salem  and  the  noblest  stock  of 
the  Puritans."  The  writer  quotes  from  the  biog 
raphy  in  a  massive  and  expensive  volume  entitled 
Prominent  Citizens  of  W 'infield  County,  Iowa. 
The  book  is  the  bulkier  that  it  includes  not  only  the 
prominent  citizens,  but  any  gentleman  of  the  coun 
ty  willing  to  be  thus  enshrined  in  the  hearts 
of  his  countrymen,  at  the  publishers'  price.  With 
a  grim  smile  Winslow  signed  a  check  and  pushed  it 
across  the  desk,  midway  in  the  agent's  glib  ex 
ordium. 

"Awful  trash !"  he  muttered  to  himself  whenever 
he  remembered,  "but  never  mind,  maybe  Johnny'll 
like  it !  and  perhaps  Olga'll  see  that  there  are  other 
folks  with  ancestors  besides  the  Galitsuins."  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  no  one  could  set  less  value  on  ancestry 
than  Mrs.  Winslow,  who  was  of  the  new  order  of 
thinkers  in  Russia,  and  was  proud  of  simplifying 
herself.  Nevertheless,  it  was  imbedded  in  her  hus- 

16 


THE   HOUSE   OF   WINSLOW  17 

band's  soul  that  she  scorned  him  and  his  friends  as 
bourgeoisie,,  because  once  that  unlucky  word  had 
slipped  off  her  tongue.  The  occasion  was  an  out 
burst  of  her  indignation  over  the  absurd  social 
distinctions  in  America,  where  she  had  dreamed 
all  men  were  brothers,  and  found  them  hard 
er  in  their  contempt  of  the  poor  than  Russian 
boyars.  But  Josiah  made  small  account  of  her 
mood ;  the  word  scorched  him.  That  same  day  he 
despatched  a  clever  young  art  student  of  Boston  to 
Plymouth  to  secure  large  oil  copies  of  his  ancestors' 
portraits  which  deck  the  walls  of  the  town's  little 
Temple  of  Fame.  This  is  how  the  pensive  Pilgrim 
scholar,  Governor  Josiah,  came  to  hang  in  the 
Winslow  library,  side  by  side  with  his  choleric 
father,  the  second  governor,  and  the  portly,  white- 
wigged  and  red-coated  general  who  won  a  poetic 
infamy  by  obeying  orders. 

"When  the  Galitsuins  were  crawling  on  all  fours 
before  your  dirty  Tartar  khans,"  remarked  Wins- 
low  frequently,  in  imaginary  interviews  with  his 
princess — which  never  came  off — "my  ancestors 
were  ruling  free  men !" 

Few  people  (among  the  few  was  not  his  wife) 
quite  appreciated  that  Josiah  possessed  that  which 
every  great  man  of  affairs  must  possess,  whether  his 
affair  be  with  war,  art,  manufactures  or  business, 
namely,  imagination.  In  the  first  part  of  his  life,  this 
concerned  itself  with  piling  up  money.  As  a  boy,  the 
only  son  of  a  poor  New  England  minister  in  a  with 
ering  parish,  he  dreamed  of  a  great  fortune.  He 
went  West  to  make  it;  he  lived  on  crackers  and 
chipped  beef;  he  was  often  cold,  he  was  generally 


i8  THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 

hungry ;  but  he  was  never  discouraged.  He  was  sure 
of  himself ;  no  surer  after  he  became  Winter's  part 
ner  than  when  he  was  Winter's  clerk.  Before  the 
war  his  success  was  beginning ;  even  in  the  sixties  he 
was  a  rich  man ;  the  war  made  him  far  richer.  His 
great  factories  could  not  turn  out  plows  and  sulky- 
rakes  fast  enough  for  the  teeming  soil's  demands. 
Winter  died,  and  his  widow  became  partner  in  his 
stead;  but  there  was  no  halt  in  the  vast  onward 
sweep  of  a  great  industry.  Already,  Winslow  had 
come  to  be  the  soul  of  it  all.  It  occupied  his  imagina 
tion;  it  almost  contented  his  heart.  At  this  period 
he  was  the  master  of  Overlook,  his  mother  and  his 
only  surviving  sister  living  with  him.  He  was  proud 
of  his  mother ;  he  loved  his  sister ;  and — he  had  the 
Old  Colony  Plow  Works. 

Madam  Winslow  was  born  a  Curwen.  She  was 
a  stately  dame  to  whose  high  aquiline  features  a 
"front"  of  raven  hair  and  a  white  tulle  turban  lent 
a  really  ducal  air.  Seeing  her  enthroned  behind  the 
old  silver  and  china,  with  a  deferential  black  man  at 
her  elbow,  one  found  it  hard  to  realize  that  in  her 
early  widowhood,  when  the  children  were  young, 
she  had  not  only  washed  the  breakfast  dishes  and 
made  the  puddings  herself,  but,  with  little  Si's  as 
sistance,  had  put  down  carpets,  mended  furniture 
and  painted  woodwork.  The  daughter  was  less 
impressive;  a  pretty,  gentle,  softly  humorous  crea 
ture,  who  filled  her  peaceful  days  with  lessons  in 
everything  taught  by  wandering  teachers,  from  the 
languages  to  embroidery. 

Madam  Winslow's  sudden  death  came  like  a 
thunderbolt  to  both  sister  and  brother.  The  year 


THE   HOUSE   OF  WINSLOW  19 

following  her  death  Josiah  met  the  Princess  Olga 
Galitsuin.  The  meeting  happened  during  his  trip  to 
Russia,  where  he  went  to  introduce  the  famous 
Winslow  chilled  plows,  now  known  from  whitest 
Siberia  to  darkest  Africa.  The  plo\vs  have  been 
turning  the  Russian  furrows  ever  since;  so  far  as 
business  goes,  the  visit  was  a  tremendous  success; 
but  Winslow's  imagination  was  kinder  to  him  in 
business  than  in  love.  He  admired  his  princess  as 
blindly  and  humbly  as  a  raw  country  lad  admires 
the  first  beautiful  summer  visitor  who  flings  him  a 
smile.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  noble  and  an 
cient  family.  Her  own  branch  was  not  rich,  but 
they  had  a  property  sufficient  to  maintain  their 
state  in  the  country  if  not  at  court,  and  Winslow 
could  hardly  believe  his  good  fortune  when  his 
suit  was  accepted  by  the  head  of  the  family,  with 
most  flattering  promptitude.  Not  until  long  after 
ward  did  he  come  to  understand  the  reason. 
On  her  part,  the  princess  told  him  frankly  that  he 
offered  her  escape  from  a  life  which  she  hated  and 
an  odious  marriage.  She  confessed  (with  an 
adorable  blush)  that  she  admired  him  more  than 
any  man  she  had  ever  seen  except  Krapotkin,  who 
was  a  saint  and  a  patriot,  not  a  lover.  Perhaps — 
yes,  sometime,  she  would  love  him. 

Such  a  confession  impressed  Josiah  as  the  most 
entrancing  mood  of  a  woman  beginning  to  feel  the 
power  of  her  own  heart ;  he  was  touched  by  her  hon 
esty  ;  his  soul  was  on  its  knees  before  her  purity  and 
her  truthfulness.  No  doubt  Olga  was  sincere;  her 
fancy  had  been  kindled  by  the  American's  devotion, 
his  generosity,  and  the  kind  of  calm  power  which 


20  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

she  felt  in  the  man,  added  to  the  glamour  about  his 
nationality  prevailing  among  Russian  liberals  at 
that  time.  She  was  as  disposed  to  dower  her  lover 
with  splendid  virtues  as  he  was  to  lavish  all  a  wom 
an's  possibilities  of  charm  upon  her.  The  nuptials 
came  off,  quietly,  but  with  no  lack  of  proper  pomp 
and  state;  none,  at  least,  obvious  to  a  stranger  like 
the  bridegroom.  Olga's  parents  were  dead,  but  her 
half-brother  and  two  sisters  were  present  to  wel 
come  Josiah,  saying  all  the  proper  and  graceful 
things  expected  of  the  moment;  and  the  bridegroom 
expressed  his  grateful  happiness  in  a  shower  of  gifts 
which  Prince  Platen  (the  brother)  chose  for  him. 
He  felt  no  misgivings  save  as  to  his  own  unworthi- 
ness. 

In  fine,  the  hard-headed,  daring,  silent  man  of 
business  was  in  a  golden  dream.  But  the  first  jar 
ring  note  came,  soon.  One  day,  on  their  wedding 
journey,  his  wife  gave  away  a  priceless  sable  coat 
to  a  beggar.  "But  the  man  was  cold,  dear  boy,"  she 
pleaded,  opening  her  charming  eyes  wider ;  "oh,  bit 
ter  cold — and  he  was  from  Little  Russia.  Can  we 
not  buy  another?" 

Josiah  gasped;  did  she  have  any  idea  how  much 
money  such  a  cloak  was  worth  ? 

No,  a  great  deal,  no  doubt,  but — smiling  and  pull 
ing  his  ear — she  had  plenty  more  wraps,  she 
wouldn't  miss  it.  He  tried  to  explain;  she  listened 
with  plaintive  attention.  At  last,  her  eyes  slowly 
brimmed  with  tears. 

"Do  you,  too,  feel  money  is  more  than  human  be 
ings?  I  thought  you  Americans  were  brothers,  all 
alike  free  and  equal  and  kind  to  each  other."  She 


THE   HOUSE   OF   WINSLOW  21 

said  the  words  in  a  level  tone,  and  those  lustrous  wet 
eyes  were  searching  him. 

"How  long  do  you  think  we  should  have  any 
money  to  spend  if  we  gave  to  every  beggar?"  he 
protested ;  but  he  felt  the  helplessness  of  the  moder 
ate  man  before  the  fanatic  and  the  child. 

"Ought  we  to  have  money  to  spend  or  only  money 
to  give?"  she  wondered,  then  she  tried  to  smooth 
out  the  perplexed  wrinkles  on  his  frowning  face. 
"Ah,  dear  boy/'  (she  always  called  him  thus,  run 
ning  the  words  together,  although  her  English,  in 
general,  was  singularly  pure  and  fluent),  "ah,  dear 
boy,  I  ask  too  much  of  you.  I  can  not  expect  you  to 
simplify  yourself  in  a  moment,  if  you  are  an  Ameri 
can.  I  shall  be  patient."  She  had  the  air  of  forgiv 
ing  him,  he  could  not  help  thinking,  and  began  a 
lively  anecdote  of  her  morning.  She  had  never  been 
more  charming ;  he  was  in  love ;  he  tried  to  forget. 

"She  is  an  angel,  but  she  is  a  child,  too,"  he  re 
assured  himself;  "she  doesn't  understand  life,  only 
that  hothouse  in  Russia.  When  I  get  her  safe  in 
Fairport  she  will  be  all  right." 

Fairport,  good,  honest,  western  town,  opened  its 
eyes  wide  at  the  exquisite  toilets,  the  amazing 
speeches  and  the  bewildering  habits  of  this  exotic. 
She  took  her  breakfast  in  bed  and  gave  her  cook 
music  lessons.  She  never  returned  her  formal  vis 
its  ;  but  she  called  often  at  a  few  houses  of  a  morn 
ing  or  an  evening,  in  any  toilet  which  she  happened 
to  be  wearing,  whether  a  dinner  gown  or  a  morning 
wrapper.  She  discarded  the  beautiful  moquette  velvet 
carpets  which  poor  Miss  Winslow  had  gone  twice 
to  Chicago  to  select,  replacing  them  by  hard- 


22  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

wood  floors  waxed  tip  to  a  gloss  that  caused  dis 
tressing  accidents  to  several  friendly  visitors,  and 
covered  with  dingy  old  rugs,  some  of  them  not 
even  whole,  at  least  very  plainly  darned.  She  filled 
the  house  with  workmen  who  did  awesome  things  to 
Madam  Winslow's  treasures.  There  was  tufted  yel 
low  satin  on  the  "big  parlor"  walls  and  not  a  pillow- 
sham  in  the  house.  She  made  the  whole  town  wel 
come  to  her  samovar  of  an  afternoon;  and  Serge 
Vassy — so  Fairport  abbreviated  Vassilovitch — a 
Russian  who  lived  on  the  Patch  and  was  an  ineffi 
cient  mason  when  he  wasn't  an  efficient  drunkard, 
might  be  seen  touching  elbows  with  Judge  Rock- 
ford  who  had  tried  him  for  murder.  There  was  not 
much  doubt  in  any  one's  mind  concerning  Serge's 
guilt,  but  the  affair  happened  in  a  saloon  brawl,  with 
all  the  witnesses  drunk  and  contradicting  one  an 
other  ;  whereby  legal  ethics,  more  merciful  to  crimi 
nals  than  to  honest  men,  gave  Serge  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt;  hence  he  escaped.  Judge  Rockford  al 
most  dropped  his  tea-cup  when  his  near-sighted 
gaze  finally  focused  Serge's  identity.  He  never 
smiled  again  at  Mrs.  Winslow's  teas. 

"She's  a  very  pretty  woman,"  said  the  judge; 
"very  charming,  very  cultivated,  but  if  Winslow 
ever  wants  her  sent  to  the  lunatic  asylum  let  him 
come  to  me" 

There  was  always  a  piquant  story  afloat  regard 
ing  the  household  at  Overlook — especially  after 
Miss  Winslow  married  and  went  away.  While  she 
stayed,  she  was  an  unobtrusive  influence  for  peace. 
She  kept  the  house.  She  was  not  a  housewife  of  re 
nown  like  her  mother,  still,  as  Mrs.  Winter  said 


THE   HOUSE   OF   WINSLOW  23 

dryly,  she  did  have  sweeping  and  baking  days  and 
expected  the  beds  to  be  made  before  dinner,  while 
Princess  Olga  didn't  so  much  as  know  bread  was 
raised  by  yeast. 

But  there  was  an  arsenal  on  the  island  in  the 
river,  opposite  Fairport;  there  were  officers  in  the 
arsenal;  and,  when  Johnny  was  five,  one  of  these 
men  of  war  bore  the  peaceful  little  lady  away.  Since 
then,  Overlook  was  become  a  topic  more  picturesque 
than  ever  at  the  Fairport  "tea  parties."  The  cook 
ran  the  house  until,  after  a  battle  royal,  the  waitress 
deposed  her  and  sent  her  to  the  police  court,  the 
constable  having  been  summoned  and  a  search  hav 
ing  disclosed  Mrs.  Winslow's  opal  bracelet  under 
the  sink  and  her  string  of  pearls  in  the  baking- 
powder.  At  the  time,  Johnny  was  barely  convales 
cent  from  scarlet  fever,  and  Josiah  Winslow  was  be 
ing  patient  and  gentle  with  his  wife.  He  took  an 
inventory  of  her  jewels  and  only  gulped  when  he 
discovered  that  a  sapphire  ring,  her  second  best 
watch,  two  bracelets,  an  emerald  necklace  and  a 
diamond  brooch  were  missing. 

As  the  years  and  irritations  went  on  he  was  not 
always  so  patient.  The  love  that  he  never  ceased 
to  feel  for  his  wife  could  not  restrain  his  swelling 
irritation,  always ;  it  did  restrain  it  often ;  but  anger 
is  like  nitroglycerin :  it  explodes  with  none  the  less 
violence  that  it  has  been  frozen.  These  two,  who 
had  hoped  to  be  lovers,  grew  more  and  more  un 
happy,  and  the  child  who  might  have  united  them 
became  the  prize  of  combat. 

Yet  after  Fairport  had  laughed,  criticized  and 
sorrowfully  pitied,  it  invariably  paid  its  tribute :  the 


24  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

Princess  Olga  was  charming.  Her  beauty,  her  wit, 
her  lovely  graciousness  conquered  every  one.  Her 
neighbor,  Mrs.  Winter,  was  a  cold  woman;  but  she 
grew  to  love  the  Russian.  With  the  double-headed 
discretion  of  a  very  wise  and  rather  selfish  person, 
she  adventured  tentative  efforts  after  some  manner 
of  conciliation  between  the  two  natures.  She  even 
tried  her  hand  at  the  conversion  of  Olga.  Once  she 
said :  "But  your  serfs  are  free,  free  as  our  niggers ; 
why  do  you  go  plotting  and  conspiring  with  dis 
gusting  people  who  don't  take  baths?" 

"It  is  one  of  the  most  expensive  things  in  the 
world  to  keep  clean,  my  dear  friend,"  Olga  would 
retort,  "and  not  all  nihilists  are  dirty." 

"Most  of  them,"  said  Mrs.  Winter.  "I  took  the 
trouble  to  get  Pisemeki's  Troubled  Sea  and  Gon- 
charof  s  Abyss;  and  upon  my  word,  a  more  obnox 
ious,  vaporing,  bragging,  bloody,  futile,  sickening 
lot  of  creatures  I  never  read  about." 

"They  are  vile  books!  And  the  French  transla 
tion  is  bad.  Oh,  most  horrid!  I  know  these  peo- 
pie." 

"Are  you  a  member  of  the  Society?"  asked  Mrs. 
Winter,  smiling,  but  a  chill  took  her  at  the  sudden 
hardening  of  Olga's  face. 

"Nu.  Of  course  not,"  she  answered,  and  changed 
the  subject. 

"She  is  lying,"  decided  Mrs.  Winter.  The  thought 
did  not  deter  her,  it  only  caused  her  to  be  more 
guarded.  But  she  was  too  shrewd  to  flatter  herself 
that  she  made  much  impression. 

Josiah  came  to  share  her  doubts.  He  came  to  ap 
prehend  that  his  wife's  nature  was  not  to  be  gaged 


THE  HOUSE  OF  WINSLOW  25 

by  his  Anglo-Saxon  standards.  It  was  not  only  that 
she  had  the  insatiable  yearning  for  the  secrets  of 
life  which  belongs  to  the  Slav,  heritage  from  his 
Asiatic  progenitors,  and  the  relentless  following  of 
logic  to  its  end,  whatever  or  however  terrible  such 
end  may  be ;  it  was  not  only  her  blind  and  passionate 
absorption  in  her  social  faiths  which  might  lead  her 
any  lengths ;  there  was  always,  also,  the  uncertainty 
of  her  oriental  nature, — its  mystery;  he  knew  that 
she  had  a  conscience  to  which  she  was  as  faithful  as 
any  Puritan  can  be  to  his;  but  her  conscience  was 
unfathomable.  Equally  beyond  any  plummet  of  his 
were  the  transitions  from  her  soft  Russian  indolence 
to  violent  energy ;  and  her  gentle  sweetness  of  man 
ner  might  be  banished  by  a  frenzy  of  emotional  re 
volt  and  despair. 

He  could  not  understand  his  wife.  And,  little  by 
little,  his  love  retreated  before  the  irritation  of  de- 
feat  and  the  humiliation  of  constant  repulse.  He  be 
gan  to  suspect  that  she  had  carried  her  social  prin 
ciples  so  far  that  her  own  people  were  content  to 
give  her  to  any  honorable  man  who  would  take  her 
out  of  Europe.  The  mysterious  facility  of  his  court 
ship  unraveled  itself.  Like  as  not  Olga  had  joined 
one  of  the  innumerable  secret  revolutionary  so 
cieties  which  had  sprung  up  in  Russia  during  Alex 
ander's  reign.  In  fact,  Prince  Platen  Galitsuin,  the 
head  of  her  branch  of  the  family,  admitted  as  much 
when  Josiah  had  been  last  in  Russia,  on  a  much-im 
portuned  visit  in  Johnny-Ivan's  sixth  year. 

"My  sister  is  adorable,"  said  he,  smiling,  "and  we 
are  so  glad  to  have  had  this  opportunity  to  see  her ; 
but  may  I,  as  your  brother  who  is  grateful  to  you, 


26  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

hint  that  we  would  better  have  our  family  gather 
ings  in  Paris  rather  than  in  Russia — oh,  no  harm 
has  been  done !  Olga,  thanks  to  you,  is  saved  from 
being  a  conspirator ;  but  the  indiscretions  of  a  noble 
but  ill-guided  heart  sometimes  last  in  their  effects 
after  the  causes  are  removed.  One  takes — so  I  am 
told — very  tremendous  oaths  and  vows,  and  my 
sister  is  of  a  devoutness,  although  she  has  renounced 
the  orthodox  religion.  Frankly,  my  dear  Winslow, 
I  would  keep  her  away  from  Russia,  no  matter  how 
earnestly  she  may  beg  you  to  take  her  there ;  these 
snakes  crawl  in  everywhere  and  they  might  ask  im 
possible  things  of  her." 

Winslow's  face  assumed  the  impassive  mask  it 
wore  when  he  was  making  a  big  contract.  Not  by  the 
twitch  of  an  eyelid  did  he  reveal  a  harsh  disgust 
mounting  in  his  heart. 

"I  suppose,"  said  he  meditatively,  between  puffs, 
"that  Olga  was  mixed  up  with  this  damn  stuff, 
seven  years  ago." 

"We  have  feared  so — since,"  admitted  the  prince 
diplomatically. 

"You  were  trying  to  marry  her  then,  were  you 
not,"  Winslow  asked,  "to  an  old  Russian — one  of 
the  Ivaslofs — then  wouldn't  she  have  stayed  in 
Russia?" 

"No,  he  was  a  great  traveler — that  was  his  chief 
recommendation;  he  would  have  mostly  lived  in 
Paris ;  but  that  was  before  we  had  the  honor  to  con 
sider  your  proposal.  I  assure  you  we  were  delighted 
that  our  dear  Olga  should  prefer  you;  and  little 
Vanya  has  won  all  our  hearts.  Did  you  know  what 
the  grand  duke  said  yesterday  ?" 


THE   HOUSE   OF  WINSLOW  27 

"Did  he  see  him?"  said  Winslow  dryly,  but  he 
felt  his  anger  cooling. 

"Yes,  talked  with  the  child,  who  behaved  charm 
ingly  ;  and  the  grand  duke  said,  'Russian  and  Anglo- 
Saxon, — you  have  two  great  races  in.  you,  little  one, 
you  should  go  far !' ' 

In  spite  of  himself  the  father  could  not  swallow 
his  smile ;  he  expanded  a  little. 

"A  noble  Russian  race,  true  enough,"  said  he, 
"and  I  can  tell  you,  Platen,  the  Winslows  and  the 
Curwens  are  as  long  in  America  and  have  had  as 
much  influence  in  their  country  as  the  Galitsuins 
have  had  in  yours." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,  my  dear  Josiah,"  returned 
Platen  suavely,  "and  now  about  Michael ;  my  sister 
wants  to  take  him.  I  suspect  if  he  doesn't  go  to 
America,  he  may  take  a  less  agreeable  trip ;  however, 
I  understand  there  will  be  no  objections  to  his  choos 
ing  your  country ;  I'm  told  by  some  of  our  all-know 
ing  fellows  that  your  climate  has  moderated  my  sis 
ter's  views  very  noticeably.  'Michael' — this  was 
said  to  me  privately — 'Michael  Michaelaivitch  is  not 
bad-hearted,  he  has  been  led  astray  and  he  will  do 
well  in  America ;  in  Russia  he  will  only  be  lost !'  ' 
"I've  promised  Olga  to  take  him,  but  I  don't  half 
like  the  notion ;  he  strikes  me  as  amiable  and  faith 
ful  ;  but  there  is  never  any  telling  when  one  of  your 
mild-mannered,  sleepy  peasants  will  take  a  scythe 
and  mow  your  head  off,  because  his  infernal  third 
section  has  considered  you  obnoxious !" 

"Oh,  I  think  you  can  trust  Mishka,  and  it  will  be 
a  pleasure  for  Olga  to  talk  Russian ;  you  know  she 
couldn't  take  her  maid,  before." 


28  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

Winslow  went  away  from  the  interview  (his  last 
with  Platen,  for  they  were  just  leaving  the  coun 
try)  smiling  grimly.  "To  think  of  those  damn 
smooth  cusses  doing  me  that  way!"  he  muttered; 
"and  I  thought  myself  so  smart  to  win  a  beautiful 
princess,  a  bald-headed  old  plow-maker  like  me,  who 
has  made  every  dollar  he  has,  himself.  You're  a 
dunderheaded  old  fool,  Si  Winslow !  All  they 
wanted  was  a  cart  to  carry  off  their  dynamite  bomb. 
And  all  Olga  wanted  was  escape!"  But  he  showed 
neither  anger  nor  discomfiture  to  Platen.  "This  ain't 
the  first  bad  bargain  you've  made  in  your  life,"  he 
told  himself,  "and  it  shan't  be  the  first  you  whined 
over.  But  they  nor  Olga  shall  get  Johnny." 

The  only  visible  result  of  his  discoveries  was  an 
interest  in  his  own  ancestors.  Formerly  he  had  been 
jocosely  indifferent  to  his  mother's  tales  of  Wins- 
lows  and  Curwens  and  Winthrops  and  Danforths 
and  their  greatness  in  their  world ;  now  he  perceived 
that  he  had  believed  them  and  been  proud  of  them 
all  the  time.  He  would  give  Johnny  as  good  account 
of  his  American  ancestors  as  Michael  could  of  his 
Russian.  Josiah's  imagination  undertook  a  new  job. 

He  sent  an  order  to  a  Boston  correspondent  for 
histories  and  books  about  the  Winslows  and  the  Cur- 
wens,  with  the  result  that  he  found  a  bulky  box  of 
books  awaiting  him  on  his  return  to  Fairport. 

He  attacked  his  information  in  a  characteristic 
way.  He  didn't  dive  into  it  unskilfully  and  flounder 
among  the  torrents  of  dates  and  names;  he  simply 
asked  different  people  who  would  be  a  good  person 
to  detach  facts  from  books. 

"I  think  Emma  Hopkins,   if  she  were  willing, 


THE   HOUSE   OF   WINSLOW  29 

could  do  better  than  any  one  else ;  but  she  would  not 
like  to  take  the  pay/'  So  Mrs.  Winter  pronounced. 
Winslow  spoke  to  Hopkins,  the  superintendent  of 
his  shop  and  just  taken  into  partnership. 

"Let  my  little  girl  do  it,"  said  Hopkins,  "she's 
looking  up  those  things  all  the  time — why,  she's 
traced  me  back  to  Stephen  Hopkins  who  came  over 
in  the  Mayflower" — he  grinned  a  little  sheepishly, 
but  Winslow  looked  pleased. 

"I  always  knew  you  came  of  good  stock,  Billy," 
said  he.  He  was  only  too  glad  to  accept  Miss 
Emma's  services  if — he  stumbled  a  little  over  the 
compensation,  but  he  thought  he  picked  himself  up 
neatly  with,  "She  can  give  it  to  her  pet  charity,  you 
know,  if  she  won't  buy  a  breastpin  with  it." 

"Give  it  to  thunder,"  growled  Hopkins.  "I  guess 
I  know  who  pulled  me  out  of  the  rut  and  believed  in 
my  inventions ;  and  if  you  won't  let  my  daughter  be 
a  little  useful — first  chance  I  get — why,  I'll — I'll — 
I'll  quit  you!" 

Hopkins  secured  his  point.  Emma  did  the  work 
(it  was  more  work  than  Winslow  had  realized)  and 
she  presented  the  results  in  a  few  weeks.  The  facts 
were  arranged  in  the  neatest  and  most  lucid  form, 
they  were  devoid  of  the  slightest  girlish  struggle  for 
literary  style,  but  they  did  not  slight  a  man  or  a 
deed ;  and  they  related  the  Winslow  Tory  plots  and 
the  brutal  part  played  by  the  old  colonial  general  in 
Acadia,  as  minutely  and  frankly  as  the  services  of 
Edward  or  Josiah.  Josiah's  own  hardships  began 
when  hers  ended;  he  set  to  work  nightly  to  learn 
by  heart  a  portion  of  the  chronicles,  and  he  kept  his 
memory  green  by  relating  the  doughty  deeds  of  the 


3o  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

Kenelms  and  Edwards  and  Josiahs  to  the  little  wide- 
eyed  listener  whom  he  took  on  drives.  So  Johnny 
was  told  how  Edward  was  the  friend  of  Cromwell 
who  was  not  a  king  but  greater,  and  how  Josiah 
stamped  out  the  witchcraft  fever,  and  how  General 
John  fought  bravely  for  his  king. 

"I  guess  my  stories  are  not  so  nice  as  mamma's?" 
fished  Josiah  once,  artfully.  To  which  the  polite 
child  responded :  "Oh,  I  don't  know ;  they  are  both 
so  nice  and  so  different  I  can't  tell  which  is  nicer." 

"And  are  Michael's  stories  nicer  than  either  of 
ours?"  said  Josiah,  with  the  little  compression  of 
his  lips  not  quite  a  smile,  which  looked  so  odd  some 
times  repeated  on  Johnny-Ivan's  delicate  features. 

"They  are  nice,  too,"  answered  the  little  boy 
diplomatically. 

Michael  Michaelaivitch  had  become  the  coachman 
at  Overlook.  Michael  was  a  big,  fair  man  whose 
thick  yellow  hair  was  cut  straight  around  his  head, 
and  who  smiled  when  he  did  not  want  to  answer 
questions.  He  was  a  past  master  of  narration. 
Many  an  afternoon  did  Johnny-Ivan  sit  enthralled 
in  the  harness  room,  while  Michael's  hands  polished 
the  silver  of  the  best  harness,  and  Michael's  tongue 
blazoned  the  past  magnificence  of  the  Galitsuins. 
But  the  ex-serf  was  always  careful  to  tag  a  disap 
proving  addendum  to  his  unctuous  eloquence. 

"But  you  understand,  gospodi,  those  vick-ed  days, 
vick-ed  days — ekh-khe-khe!  Nu  s  bogom!"  Cer 
tainly  some  of  the  stories  dealt  with  wicked  days, 
those,  for  instance  which  told  of  Ivan  the  Terrible. 
Unpleasantly  suggestive,  also,  were  those  about 
Leteoseka  and  his  bag  for  the  capture  of  naughty 


THE   HOUSE   OF   WINSLOW  31 

children.  Nevertheless  Johnny-Ivan  loved  the 
shudder  of  them,  and  he  loved  the  dreary,  yet  im 
aginative  legends  of  Russian  folk-lore;  how  Baba- 
Yago,  the  ogress,  lives  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  in  a 
house  turning  like  a  weather-cock  with  every  wind ; 
how  Mikula  Silianinovitch,  the  "Good  Laborer," 
toils  for  others  while  they  sleep,  and  can  be  heard 
a  day's  journey  away,  striking  up  the  stones  of 
the  furrows  with  his  great  plowshare;  most  thrill 
ing  of  all,  how  the  mythical  Kaler  swam  the  Gulf 
of  Finland,  when  the  spirits  of  the  North  burned 
up  his  vessel  with  their  hot  breath,  and  how 
forthwith  he  builded  him  a  ship  of  silver  which 
could  not  be  burned.  Johnny  was  always  demand 
ing  the  Variag  rovers,  especially  Kaler. 

Yet  with  all  his  fascinations  Kaler  was  not  so  dear 
to  Johnny-Ivan  as  one  of  his  father's  heroes,  his 
very  own  ancestor,  whose  portrait  hung  in  the  li 
brary,  where  the  little  boy  saw  it  many  times  a  day. 
The  subject  was  that  Josiah  Winslow,  son  of  Ed 
ward,  who  ruled  the  colony  of  Plymouth  through 
the  witchcraft  madness,  and  shrewdly  headed  off 
the  contagion  by  fining  the  first  bewitched  man  ten 
pounds  for  maliciously  maligning  his  neighbors  and 
bringing  evil  ways  into  the  colony.  The  dark  and 
beautiful  face,  with  the  thought  in  its  pensive  eyes 
and  the  delicate,  faint  smile,  bore  little  enough  hint 
that  it  belonged  to  a  progenitor  of  Josiah  of  Fair- 
port,  who  was  sturdy  and  cold  of  mien  and  had  a 
well-fed,  enduring  countenance  and  keen,  gray  eyes. 
But  Johnny-Ivan's  brows  and  large  brown  eyes  and 
sensitive  mouth  were  enough  like  the  Puritan  schol 
ar's  to  have  belonged  to  his  own  son. 


32  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

Probably  Josiah  did  not  fully  realize  his  own  suc 
cess  in  awakening"  his  son's  imagination.  There  was 
such  a  gulf  between  his  son's  and  his  own  child 
hood,  where  the  din  and  strain  of  a  hand-to-hand 
fight  with  poverty  had  crowded  out  idle  reveries  or 
romance  and  kept  a  boy's  wits  intent  on  material 
things,  that  he  felt  like  a  blind  man  fumbling  in  his 
child's  soul.  He  had  no  light  of  experience  to  guide 
him.  At  times  he  was  as  puzzled  about  his  son  as 
about  his  wife.  Doggedly  he  plodded  through  visi 
ble  and  outward  facts,  trailing  after  some  inward 
and  spiritual  cause,  precisely  as  he  would  have  in 
vestigated  the  signs  of  the  market  or  his  competi 
tors'  schemes. 

It  was  before  the  Russian  trip  that  Olga's  fever 
of  humanity  was  diverted  to  the  people  whom  her 
husband  employed.  She  went  on  a  personal  tour  of 
investigation  among  their  homes,  an  arduous  and 
tedious  matter  at  this  period,  since  the  homes  were 
scattered  and  the  Fairport  ways  miry,  so  that  often 
she  was  forced  to  leave  her  carriage  and  go  afoot 
in  the  mud.  It  was  also  thankless,  the  men  at 
the  Plow  Works  being  independent,  self-respecting 
American  citizens  who  had  no  desire  to  be  helped, 
and  an  active  repugnance  to  being  patronized.  Noth 
ing  came  of  her  tenders  except  the  scarlet  fever  for 
Johnny-Ivan.  It  was  brought  back  to  him  from  a 
little  girl  just  convalescent,  held  by  the  Princess 
Olga  while  she  listened  sympathetically  to  the 
mother's  tirade  against  a  cruel  and  ignorant  fore 
man  in  the  foundry,  who  had  "pets."  The  little 
girl's  case  was  very  light ;  not  so  Johnny-Ivan's.  In 
wrath,  Josiah  demanded  a  quarantine  and  no  visits 


THE   HOUSE   OF   WINSLOW  33 

to  unknown  households.  To  his  surprise,  his  wife 
did  not  rebel. 

In  truth,  at  this  time,  her  whole  nature  was  con 
centrated  on  her  child's  peril.  Nurses  were  not  to 
be  obtained  easily,  nor  were  those  at  hand  skil 
ful.  Day  and  night  Olga  watched  over  her  boy. 
She  obeyed  the  doctor  with  such  implicit  faithfulness 
and  understanding,  she  had  such  keenness  of  ob 
servation,  such  cheerfulness  (before  the  patient)  and 
such  self-control,  that  a  cynical  man  of  medicine 
and  the  world  never  afterward  ceased  to  be  her 
admirer.  Josiah  himself,  with  a  grinding  pain,  felt 
his  own  stunned  and  battered  love  stir  again  in  his 
heart.  Meanwhile  Olga  hardly  seemed  conscious 
that  her  husband  existed.  So  soon  as  Johnny-Ivan 
was  convalescent,  she  made  his  state  the  unanswer 
able  pretext  to  keep  him  with  her.  Josiah  would 
watch  on  the  wide  portico  for  his  little  son,  pacing 
up  and  down,  or  would  sit  in  his  library,  the  door 
open,  on  the  chance  of  catching  him  as  if  by  acci 
dent  when  he  came  by,  and  proposing  a  drive  or  a 
walk. 

The  house  was  too  far  out  of  town  for  informal 
neighborly  visits  such  as  Fairport  has  always  de 
lighted  to  pay,  passers-by  halting  on  the  way,  neigh 
bors  "dropping  in,"  as  the  kindly  phrase  has  it.  The 
Winters  to  the  right,  the  Lossings  to  the  left,  would 
sometimes  pull  the  great  gong-like  bell  of  the  front 
door,  or  cronies,  by  appointment,  would  drive  under 
the  elms  to  take  dinner  with  Winslow.  But  there 
were  many  lonely  hours  for  the  husband  and  wife; 
lonelier,  it  may  be,  for  him  than  for  her.  After  her 
efforts  at  comradeship  or  charity  had  been  thwarted 


34  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

among  Winslow's  people;  after  he  had  refused  to 
build  a  hospital  and  a  free  bath,  and  she  had  lost 
both  her  rubbers  in  the  mud,  going  for  personal  in 
tercession  for  a  workman  to  one  of  Winslow's  fore 
men  who  refused  her  appeal,  and  aired  a  strong 
sense  of  injury,  the  next  morning,  to  the  superin 
tendent, — she  found  a  welcome  for  her  largess  and 
her  sympathy  among  a  few  of  her  own  people,  set 
tled  on  the  common  below  Overlook.  The  quarter 
was  known  as  the  "Patch."  The  Patch  had  no  fine 
houses  and  very  few  comfortable  ones.  It  was  dusty 
in  summer  and  miry  in  winter.  Drainage  and  sew 
age  were  left  to  the  mercy  of  God  and  did  not  seem 
to  find  it,  since  the  Patch  was  the  home  of  diph 
theria  at  a  time  when  diphtheria  was  more  dreaded 
than  typhoid.  If  the  Patch  garbage  overflowed  the 
inefficient  shelter  of  back  yards,  occasionally  there 
would  be  a  bonfire,  exciting  false  hopes  in  town  that 
the  whole  Patch  might  be  swept  away;  but,  In  gen 
eral,  what  stray  cats  and  dogs  and  fowls  could  not 
devour  was  left  to  the  weather. 

On  the  Patch  lived  Serge  Vassilovitch,  in  the 
overflowing  family  of  his  sister.  His  sister's  hus 
band  was  not  a  patriot  and  reformer  like  Serge;  he 
was  merely  a  peaceful  vender  of  old  iron,  rags  and 
bottles,  whose  sole  quarrel  with  the  police  was  that 
he  would  keep  his  wares  piled  in  the  alley.  There 
were,  however,  several  comrades  of  Serge's  own 
household  of  political  faith,  who  had  listened  to 
emigration  sirens  and  come  to  a  land  where  all  men 
were  to  be  like  brothers  and  welcome  the  new  lovers 
of  liberty  with  outstretched  hands  full  of  money. 
They  expected  free  lands,  compassion  and  admira- 


THE   HOUSE   OF   WINSLOW  35 

tion ;  they  found  an  unconcerned  multitude  who  de 
manded  as  hard  work  from  other  people  as  they  were 
willing  to  give  themselves.  It  were  a  pitiful  story, 
did  any  exile  dreamer  who  has  come  to  our  shores 
write  it  fully — this  malicious  comedy  of  trust  and 
disillusion — the  dream  of  Utopia  and  the  reality  of 
the  same  old  human  nature  in  the  same  old  ruthless 
grapple  with  nature  and  its  kind. 

Olga,  who  had  been  through  all  the  acts,  could 
understand  the  bewildered  disappointment  of  her 
countrymen.  They  did  not  suspect  her  motives  nor 
were  they  indignant  at  her  pity.  With  them  she  felt 
at  home.  By  degrees,  she  came  to  spend  much  time 
in  the  Patch.  She  took  Johnny-Ivan  with  her. 

"After  diphtheria,  I  suppose,  this  time,"  grunted 
Josiah.  Then  he  was  sorry,  but  pride  and  helpless 
ness  to  explain  himself  held  him  mute. 

"I  will  not  take  Vanya  anywhere  unless  I  know  it 
is  safe,"  promised  Olga,  who  had  changed  color. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Josiah,  but  in  no  thankful 
tone,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel. 

About  this  time  came  the  trip  to  Russia.  It  was 
after  their  return  that  Mrs.  Winslow  began  to  re 
ceive  a  large  number  of  letters  all  from  across  the 
seas.  These  letters  bore  not  a  Russian  but  a  Swiss 
stamp.  Josiah  knew  perfectly  the  hand  of  the  prince 
and  of  Olga's  two  sisters  leading  blameless  lives, 
according  to  Russian  police  standards.  The  letters' 
chirography  belonged  to  none  of  them.  Neverthe 
less,  he  kept  silence;  his  only  token  of  interest  was 
his  despatching  Tim  instead  of  Michael  for  the  mail. 
Josiah  pondered.  Nor  were  his  ponderings  without 
results  of  many  sorts. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  GOLDEN  AGE 

The  Fairport  mothers  sometimes  looked  at 
Johnny-Ivan  with  a  pity  which  (had  he  perceived  it) 
would  have  bewildered  him. 

"Poor  little  lonesome  chap!"  said  they.  Really, 
however,  Johnny-Ivan  was  not  lonesome — not  even 
before  Peggy  came ;  of  course  after  she  came  he  was 
as  contented  as  a  child  could  be.  Besides  his  own 
resources,  which  were  considerable,  owing  to  an  im 
agination  of  power  and  the  healthy  energy  of  his 
years  which  finds  joy  in  any  exercise,  there  were 
four  people  whom  he  loved. 

Paramount  was  his  mother.  He  worshiped  his 
mother.  As  a  rule,  children  have  no  acute  percep 
tion  of  human  beauty;  but  Johnny-Ivan  loved 
the  sight  of  his  mother  as  he  loved  the  sunset 
or  the  flowers  or  the  waving  grass.  Dimly  he 
realized  that  her  charming  figure  in  its  invariable 
white  of  a  morning,  summer  or  winter,  and  its 
flashing  jewels  and  rich,  soft,  shimmering  stuffs  of 
an  evening,  was  something  of  a  quality  more  deli 
cate  and  precious  than  belonged  to  the  other  ladies 
who  came  to  the  house.  Merely  to  be  in  her  presence 
was  a  deep  and  exquisite  content.  He  would  nestle 
against  her  soft  skirts  by  the  hour,  like  a  happy  lit 
tle  dog,  while  she  read  or  wrote  or  embroidered  or 

36 


THE   GOLDEN   AGE  37 

played  on  the  grand  piano  in  the  hall.  He  would 
patter  by  her  side  on  her  long  walks  until  his  tiny 
legs  wabbled  under  him  and  his  face  was  pale  with 
fatigue,  and,  with  caressing  Russian  diminutives, 
she  would  turn  remorsefully  to  clasp  him  in  her 
arms  and  make  him  sit  down  to  rest. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  Johnny-Ivan  would  swagger; 
"I  could  run  if  I  wanted  to." 

He  invested  her  with  every  attribute  of  splendor 
or  loveliness.  Once  he  broke  out :  "Mamma,  I  wisht 
you  was  a  queen!"  His  mother  laughed,  but  very 
tenderly.  "In  Russia  I  was  a  princess  once,"  she 
said.  Johnny  caught  his  breath :  "Oh,  let's  go  back 
and  you  be  a  princess  again !" 

"No,  dear.  It  is  wrong  that  there  should  be 
princesses  or  queens  or  any  such  people.  They  only 
oppress  the  poor.  They  have  no  right  to  have  their 
beautiful  palaces  and  live  in  luxury  while  the  poor 
people  toil  for  them,  who  haven't  even  black  bread 
enough  to  eat." 

Johnny-Ivan's  sigh  was  weighted  with  disappoint 
ment.  "I  s'pose  not,"  he  acquiesced  sorrowfully. 
But  he  offered  his  own  compromise  in  his  evening 
petitions.  Every  evening  he  said  his  prayers,  taught 
him  by  the  cook,  who  was  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
faith,  amended  by  Hilma,  a  stanch  Lutheran,  and 
audited,  as  it  were,  by  his  father,  who  went  regu 
larly  to  the  Episcopal  church  of  a  Sunday,  carrying 
Johnny.  Josiah  Winslow  had  not  gone  to  church  be 
fore  his  marriage,  and  his  later  church-going  was  a 
most  unexpected  result  of  matrimony,  since  Mrs. 
Winslow  never  attended  any  church  whatever.  She 
smoked  her  cigarettes  peacefully  at  home  and  read 


38  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

Russian  pamphlets.  Nevertheless  he  did  go,  and  his 
little  son  stayed  to  Sunday-school,  and  said  his 
prayers  at  night  at  his  mother's  knee,  while  she 
listened,  thinking  her  own  thoughts. 

This  night  he  added  a  private  postscript  to  his 
customary  punctilious  intercessions  for  "papa  and 
mamma  and  Peggy  and  Aunty  Winter  and  all  my 
dear  friends  and  relations  and  Michael  and  Hilma 
and  Lena  and  Nora  Halloran  and  Teresa  and  the 
woman  who  comes  to  wash  (I  forgot  her  name) 
and  Tim  and  Jerry  and  all  papa's  men  at  the  works 
and  the  president  of  the  United  States  and  Father 
O'Brien  and  all  those  in  authority."  He  made  a 
slight  pause,  then  said  reverently :  "And  please  God, 
don't  let  there  be  any  princes  or  kings  or  princesses 
to  oriss  the  poor;  but  if  they've  got  to  be  some, 
please; let  mamma  be  one  of  them!" 

All  times  near  his  mother  were  lovely,  so  lovely 
that  did  he  hear  his  nurse  call :  "Your  mamma,  sie 
want  you,  Yonny-Ivan !"  he  would  even  leave  off 
helping  Michael  curry  the  horses,  without  a  pang, 
and  race  to  the  tortures  of  Hilma's  Swedish  move 
ment  cure ;  yet  these  were  truly  formidable,  because 
Hilma  always  washed  up,  with  a  torturing  assault 
on  the  nose;  she  also  used  a  strong  lather  of  suds 
which  no  tightest  shutting  of  a  boy's  eyes  could  op 
pose. 

"Well,  den,  you  don'  git  so  dirty,  I  don'  must 
wash  you  mit  soap!"  was  her  stern  retort  if  the 
sufferer  whimpered.  It  shows,  therefore,  the 
strength  of  his  mother's  attraction  that  Johnny-Ivan 
should  dare  all  the  terrors  of  the  toilet  to  reach  her 
side. 


THE   GOLDEN   AGE  39 

On  the  whole,  the  least  pleasant  times  with 
mamma  were  at  the  piano,  where  she  never  played 
pretty  songs,  like  Peggy's,  for  instance,  about  the 
Suwanee  River  and  her  old  Kentucky  home  and 
Nellie,  who  was  a  lady;  but  awful,  queer  music 
that  sounded  like  the  wind  moaning  or  lost  children 
hollering  and  crying  in  the  woods,  and  made  a  boy 
feel  bad.  It  wasn't  quite  so  pleasant,  either,  when 
she  sat  having  a  "reverie"  and  he  must  not  disturb 
her,  and  her  beautiful  black  eyebrows  would  knit 
and  her  lip  would  curl  and  she  would  mutter 
strange  words  in  Russian.  But  soon  she  would 
shake  her  head  and  smile;  and  like  as  not  there 
would  follow  the  very  most  charming  times  of  all, 
because  mamma,  too,  could  tell  lovely  stories. 

Some  exalted  the  ancient  valor  of  the  warriors  of 
her  line.  Others  there  were  of  her  own  girlhood,  of 
the  lonely  steppes  and  battles  with  wolves  and  wild 
races  over  the  snow  in  sleighs  drawn  by  three 
horses.  But  the  secret  stories  were  the  best  of  all. 
They  were  about  patriots,  about  "our  people." 

Very  early,  Olga  had  interested  her  boy  in  the 
Russian  political  struggles.  He  was  an  ardent  nihil 
ist  conspirator  in  kilts ;  and  his  journeys  to  the  Patch 
with  his  mother  were  fraught  with  thrilling  excite 
ment.  The  Russian  visit  was  a  little  disturbing.  The 
aunts  and  uncles  and  cousins  were  so  nice,  so  kind 
and  generous !  Yet  these  delightful  people  did  not 
love  free  Russia.  This  was  perplexing.  How 
ever,  it  made  amends  that  Mishka,  who  was  even 
nicer  than  Uncle  Platen  or  Cousin  Saska,  Mishka 
belonged  to  the  patriots.  He  was  proud  of  the  con 
fidence  reposed  in  him  by  his  mother  and  Michael, 


4o  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

and  swore  (on  a  sword  stuck  in  the  ground)  never 
to  repeat  any  word  told  him. 

The  ceremony  came  off  out  by  the  summer-house ; 
and  the  sword  of  the  ritual  was  his  father's,  handed 
down  from  a  stiff  old  Tory,  who  might  well  have 
turned  in  his  grave  at  such  misusage.  Johnny  re 
membered,  always,  the  swelling  of  his  heart  as  he 
laid  his  scrap  of  a  hand  on  the  big  hilt,  and  the  up 
lifted,  strange  expression  of  Michael's  face. 

"He  is  one  of  us,  Olga  Ivanovna,"  said  Michael. 
He  spoke  in  a  new  solemn  voice.  But  maman  clasped 
Johnny  so  close  he  felt  her  heart  beat;  he  was 
stirred  by  an  indescribable  contagion  of  excitement. 

"Not  that,  Michael,  not  that !"  she  cried,  "he  is 
too  young;  and  he  is  an  American.  But  he  is  old 
enough  to  keep  a  secret,  the  greatest  of  secrets !" 

"Qui,  maman"  said  Johnny-Ivan,  "cross  my 
heart!"  He  crossed  himself  on  his  tiny  shoulder. 
"I  won't  tell  even  Peggy — if  you  say  so !" 

"Not  even  Peggy,"  said  his  mother  firmly;  and 
she  added,  averting  her  eyes,  "not  even  papa;  it's 
our  secret,  because  we  are  Russians.  Papa  is  Ameri 
can  and  he  wouldn't  understand !" 

Were  the  truth  known,  Johnny  felt  it  a  harder 
strain  to  keep  from  telling  Peggy  than  his  father. 
He  did  not  feel  so  well  acquainted  with  his  father. 
He  always  put  him  in  the  second  place  of  honor, 
officially.  "I  love  mamma,  papa,  you,  Michael  and 
Aunty  Winter,"  he  used  to  say  to  Peggy ;  neverthe 
less,  he  experienced  a  vague  constraint  in  his  father's 
presence.  And  a  few  days  after  the  rite  on  the  lawn 
something  happened  which,  slight  though  it  was  of 
itself,  deepened  this  feeling  to  a  sorrowful  degree. 


THE   GOLDEN   AGE  41 

Winslow  had  taught  his  boy  to  drive;  naturally, 
so  soon  as  the  small  John  could  turn  the  corner  with 
out  upsetting  the  buggy,  he  yearned  to  drive  alone. 
He  was  sure  that  he  only  needed  the  opportunity 
to  convince  the  elders  of  his  skill;  and  he  often 
pictured  to  himself  his  father's  surprise  and  pleasure 
if  only  such  a  chance  came.  The  chance  did  come, 
and  Johnny  seized  it,  but  not  with  exhilaration; 
rather  out  of  a  fine  sense  of  duty.  Thus  did  it  be 
fall  :  The  cow-barn,  back  in  the  big  pasture,  caught 
fire  from  an  irresponsible  cigarette,  smoked  by  one 
of  the  princess'  pensioners.  Michael  was  over  at  the 
stable  proper  when  the  alarm  was  given,  just  tak 
ing  out  Mr.  Winslow's  buggy  and  the  big  gray. 
He  sped  away  over  the  hill  with  Tim  and  the  stable- 
boy,  first  hitching  the  horse  to  the  post  in  front  of 
the  stable. 

Johnny  knew  his  father  ought  to  have  the  horse 
— hadn't  he  heard  him  cautioning  Michael  to  fetch 
it  in  "at  three,  sharp,"  because  he  had  an  important 
engagement  and  must  drive  over  the  bridge? — and 
yet  here  was  Mishka  off  to  the  fire!  Johnny-Ivan 
didn't  blame  him;  he  was  longing  to  get  into  the 
smoke  himself,  and  help  take  the  cows  out  (he  was 
sure  he  knew  just  the  way) ;  but  how  was  papa  to 
keep  his  engagement!  He  recalled  a  conversation 
with  his  father  regarding  engagements,  which  had 
impressed  him  deeply  as  to  their  stern  sacredness. 
His  mother  was  not  at  home;  already  he  had  dis 
covered  the  inadequate  workings  of  Hilma's  mind 
in  emergencies;  Johnny-Ivan  felt  that  he  must  act! 
With  a  somber  backward  glance  at  the  clouds  of 
white  and  dun  drifting  over  the  trees,  he  stood  on 


42  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

his  short  tiptoes  and  untied  the  horse;  this  accom 
plished,  he  climbed  into  the  buggy  over  the  wheel — 
not  risking  the  complicated  manceuver  of  turning 
the  horse  from  the  ground — and  drove  away. 

The  first  difficulty  lay  in  wait  at  the  gate.  It  was 
a  gate  supposed  to  work  itself;  you  drove  on  to  an 
iron  spring  and  the  weight  of  the  wagon  made  the 
spring  work  a  lever  and  swing  the  gate  open ;  when 
you  went  out  you  drove  over  another  spring,  which 
neatly  closed  the  gate  behind  you!  Nothing  could 
be  more  convenient — if  the  gate  worked.  It  did  not 
work  for  Johnny's  feather  weight.  He  found  his 
wheel  poised  upon  the  unyielding  steel  and  a  mo 
tionless  wall  of  iron  and  wood  before  the  horse's 
nose.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  descend,  open 
the  gate  and  lead  Romeo,  the  horse,  through  the 
gateway.  Unhappily,  Romeo  was  an  animal  of 
opinions ;  he  gazed  upon  the  small  figure  tugging  at 
the  gate  and  tossed  his  head  in  huge  contempt  when 
Johnny  would  have  caught  the  rein;  probably  he 
concluded  that  so  small  a  human  being  did  not  know 
the  secret  of  hurting  a  horse's  mouth  to  force  him  to 
go  wherever  the  hurter  willed;  slowly,  sedately,  he 
ambled  off  the  drive  on  to  the  grassy  hill  and  began 
to  nibble  the  dead  grass. 

Johnny-Ivan  took  in  the  situation  and  made  up 
his  mind,  which,  though  young,  was  masterful;  he 
did  not  try  to  lead  the  rebel;  he  knew  better  after 
that  one  jerk  of  the  head;  he  simply  climbed  into 
the  buggy  again,  climbed  out  on  the  thills,  fished 
up  the  reins  and  hauled  up  Romeo's  head.  Why 
Romeo  submitted  no  one  knows ;  he  may  have  had  a 
sense  of  humor;  submit  he  did  and  Johnny  in  tri- 


THE   GOLDEN   AGE  43 

umph  drove  forth  out  of  the  gate.  He  did  not  at 
tempt  to  close  it ;  he  could  not  trust  Romeo  enough 
for  that  feat ;  instead,  he  drove  down  the  road  until 
he  met  a  boy,  whom  he  asked  in  his  politest  man 
ner  to  close  the  gate  for  him.  Alas !  it  was  the  boy 
who  had  once  called  Peggy  Rutherford  a  "red-head 
ed  copperhead"  and  been  tumbled  down  the  ravine 
on  to  the  tin  cans, — the  same  boy  whose  wounded 
toe  Johnny-Ivan  had  bound  in  his  handkerchief  for 
Peggy's  scorning.  This  youngster,  by  rights,  should 
have  had  a  tincture  of  gratitude  in  his  resentment; 
but  it  was  plain  his  was  a  base,  unknightly  nature ; 
in  other  words,  he  was  "mean,"  for  he  made  a  vul 
gar  gesture  with  his  thumb  on  his  nose,  and  bawled 
to  Johnny-Ivan  that  cows  would  run  in  and  "tromp 
up  the  garden."  He  said  he  saw  them  coming. 
Johnny  was  minded  to  descend  and  fight  the  boy 
again;  but  distrust  of  Romeo  chained  him  to  his 
seat.  So  he  told  the  boy  he  was  smart,  wasn't  he? 
and  held  on  his  way. 

The  next  footman  to  whom  he  appealed  was  a 
man.  "Shet  it  yourself !"  growled  the  man ;  he  was 
in  a  hurry.  Johnny-Ivan's  brow  began  to  show  a 
deep  line ;  but  he  hailed  the  third  passer-by,  this  time 
a  girl.  The  girl  owned  a  pleasant  face;  very  likely 
her  nature  was  of  equal  pleasantness,  but  she  talked 
no  English  and  Johnny  spoke  no  German;  hence 
the  colloquy  was  barren  of  result.  He  drove  on, 
thinking  deeply.  The  end  of  this  mental  exercise  was 
his  proffering  the  next  comer,  a  very  freckled  little 
boy,  the  sumptuous  bribe  of  a  knife  with  three 
blades;  one  (admitted  the  honest  Johnny-Ivan)  a 
little  broken,  just  the  point  off,  if  he  would  go  shut 


44  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

the  gate.  Thus  did  Johnny  take  his  first  step  into 
the  mercenary  mire  of  the  world — with  entire  suc 
cess;  for  the  boy  sped  to  the  gate,  knife  in  hand, 
and  swung  it  safe  with  a  vigorous  click. 

"It  was  an  awful  nice  knife/'  sighed  Johnny;  but 
directly  he  smiled.  "I  bet  he'll  have  a  good  time  with 
that  knife!  I  bet  he  never  had  such  a  nice  knife  be 
fore,"  thought  Johnny-Ivan  happily. 

The  journey  was  uneventful ;  he,  or  Romeo,  made 
the  passage  through  the  most  crowded  street  of 
Fairport,  and  drew  up  at  the  office  door  without  so 
much  as  the  graze  of  a  wheel.  Wouldn't  his  father 
be  pleased ! 

But  his  father  frowned;  where  was  Michael?  he 
demanded. 

Johnny-Ivan  explained  :  Michael  was  putting  out 
the  fire  in  the  cows'  barn;  he  knew  his  father  had 
an  engagement ;  so  he  drove  in,  himself. 

Mr.  Winslow's  black  eyebrows  knitted,  nor  did 
they  smooth  until  his  questions  had  gathered  the 
whole  story.  Then  Johnny  heard  him  mutter,  low : 
"Well,  you  are  my  son  as  well  as  your  mother's; 
go  off  half-cock,  but  manage  to  hit,  somehow." 
Johnny-Ivan  was  not  quite  sure  whether  he  should 
consider  this  praise  or  reproof ;  and  an  uncomforta 
ble  choke  in  his  throat  had  succeeded  the  pleasant 
glow  of  anticipation.  "I  thought  you'd  like  me 
coming  in,"  he  said;  "you  said  maybe  I'd  learn  to 
drive  all  myself ;  and  I  did ;  and  besides,  it  was  your 
engagement;  you  had  to  go,  you  said." 

"That's  all  right;  but  I  could  have  kept  my  en 
gagement  with  another  buggy — didn't  I  tell  you 
never  to  get  in  without  Michael  ?" 


THE   GOLDEN   AGE  45 

"But  Michael  wasn't  there!" 

"Then  you  shouldn't  have  got  in ;  I  didn't  tell  you 
to  drive  me ;  I  told  Michael.  Johnny,  it  will  save  you 
a  lot  of  trouble  if  you  learn,  right  now,  not  to  mind 
other  folks'  business  unless  they  ask  you,  or  you've 
got  to,  to  protect  yourself."  Johnny's  face  fell. 
"You  might  have  broken  the  buggy  or  killed  the 
horse,  or  maybe  killed  yourself.  You  don't  know 
how  to  drive  well  enough.  Remember,  I  mean  what 
I  say.  You  are  never  to  get  into  the  buggy  and 
drive  without  my  permission  again.  Do  you  under 
stand?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  mumbled  Johnny-Ivan,  very  subdued 
now,  his  heart  swelling  with  a  painful  sense  of  fail 
ure  and  injustice.  He  had  wanted  to  help  papa,  and 
only  been  scolded  for  it;  it  wasn't  fair.  He  had 
never  thought  of  his  father  as  a  severe  man  before; 
nor  was  he  in  the  least  afraid  of  him ;  but  to-day  an 
unacknowledged  assent  to  others'  reason  for  dread 
was  working  in  his  childish  mind,  like  the  germ  of  a 
disease.  And  an  incident  on  the  way  home  gave  the 
germ  a  chance  to  grow.  Mr.  Winslow  drove  to  the 
grocery,  where  the  family  supplies  were  bought — 
he  had  long  ago  discovered  that  his  peace  of  mind,  at 
table,  was  best  secured  by  attending  to  the  provid 
ing  himself.  While  the  grocer  was  writing  the  order 
on  his  pad,  Johnny-Ivan  studied  the  sights  of  the 
street. 

Opposite  the  store  a  cottage  of  the  older  days 
still  kept  its  place  and  its  teaspoonful  of  yard, 
although  long  since  the  neighbors  of  its  kind 
had  given  way  to  brick  blocks.  Something  strange 
had  happened  In  this  cottage.  Not  a  fire,  for  there 


46  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

was  not  a  sign  of  smoke  or  water;  yet  behold,  on 
the  sidewalk  all  the  humble  plenishing  of  the  house 
hold  !  There  they  were :  bedsteads,  bureaus,  a 
ragged  quilt,  a  red-cushioned  rocking-chair,  a  baby's 
cradle,  some  poor  straw-ticks,  a  table  heaped  with 
earthenware  and  gaudy,  cheap  dishes,  a  little  broken 
red  wagon,  the  toy  of  some  child ;  not  flung  in  the 
reckless  mass  of  fright  and  hasty  moving,  but  ar 
ranged  with  orderly  economy  of  space,  close  to  the 
curbing.  Yet  one  could  perceive  that  it  was  for  no 
ordinary  flitting  these  goods  seemed  to  wait.  A 
flushed  and  disheveled  woman  was  weeping  on  her 
apron,  behind  the  rampart  of  bedsteads;  two  very 
dirty  little  children  rocked  and  howled  in  the  rock 
ing-chair  ;  and  a  thick-set,  baffled-looking  man,  with 
his  head  down  between  his  shoulders  and  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk 
and  opposed  laconic  murmurs  to  a  sobbing  stream 
of  reproach. 

Johnny-Ivan's  curiosity  and  sympathy  increased 
every  second.  Now  and  then  poignant  phrases  smote 
his  ear :  "Six  childer,  God  have  mercy  on  me !  and 
me  man  that  should  wurrk  for  thim,  a  misfortunate 
drunkard!  ...  I  ain't  seen  a  well  day  for 
three  year !  'Tis  crippled  I  am  wid  the  misery  in  me 
bones.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  drink,  and  shame  to 
yous  for  the  question !  You  don't  know  how  to  trate 
a  lady,  nohow !  There's  me  poor  old  mither's  rock- 
in'-chair — Oh,  bless  God  she  ain't  alive  to  see  this 
day!  ...  I  don't  know  where  we'll  go;  the 
neighbors  is  harder'n  stones  of  the  strate.  Oh,  I 
can't  go  to  the  poor'us !  Me  wid  six  childer.  -.  .  . 
Oh,  he's  gone,  he's  left  me!  He  blacked  me  eye. 


THE   GOLDEN   AGE  47 

.  .  .  An'  if  I  did  throw  the  flat-iron  at  him  'twas 
to  save  me  life  an'  that  old  cat,  Teresa  Maclnarney 
.  .  .  Oh,  'tis  a  bloody  lie.  ...  I  don't  care 
if  the  judge  did  fine  me !  I  scratched  her  in  silf-de- 
fense — I  ain't  got  a  livin'  cint  in  this  wurld — 'Twill 
kill  me!  Twill  kill  me!  Oh—!  Oh!" 

Johnny-Ivan  was  too  innocent  to  detect  the 
squalid  truth  under  this  tragic  action;  the  woman's 
sobs  wrung  his  heart. 

"Oh,  papa,  what  is  it?  Can't  we  help  her?"  he 
cried.  He  saw  that  both  the  grocer  and  his  clerk 
were  grinning ;  they  were  cruel. 

His  father,  too,  compressed  his  lips  in  irony  if  not 
in  humor.  "What  is  it?"  begged  Johnny-Ivan. 

"Why,  just  an  eviction,"  said  Winslow ;  "they 
wouldn't  pay  their  rent  and  they've  been  turned 
out." 

"But  where  will  they  go,  papa?  Have  they  got 
any  other  house  ?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  they'll  find  a  place.  That's  all,  Mr. 
Black,  good  morning."  Winslow,  who  was  driving, 
couldn't  see  it;  but  Johnny-Ivan  got  his  head  back 
over  his  shoulder  for  a  last  glance;  the  grocer  and 
his  clerk  were  exchanging  grins  again. 

"Can't  you  give  the  poor  woman  some  money, 
papa?"  said  he. 

"I've  done  all  that's  necessary,  Johnny,"  said  his 
father. 

"She's  running  after  us  now,  papa — look!  look!" 

In  fact,  she  was  making  a  staggering  dash  after 
the  buggy  which,  had  she  been  sober,  she  might 
have  recognized  before. 

Winslow  gave  Romeo  a  sharp  clip  with  the  whip ; 


48  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

he  never  turned  his  head.  "Oh,  papa,  she  wants  us 
to  stop !" 

"Can't  you  see" — Winslow  began  the  sentence  in 
a  testy  tone,  but  as  he  looked  down  at  the  innocent 
little  face  he  stopped  short ;  he  couldn't  tell  the  child 
the  truth. 

The  woman's  shrill  outcry  beat  up  through  the 
rattle  of  wheels:  "Oh,  Mr.  Winslow!  Mr.  Wins- 
low  !  For  God's  sake,  don't  turn  me  out  on  the  street, 
Mr.  Winslow !  I'll  pay  you,  if  you'll  only  give  me 
time — "  Here  the  stout  man  caught  up  with  her  and 
could  be  seen  soothing  her  with  mingled  cajolery 
and  threats,  while  Romeo  swung  round  the  corner, 
out  of  sight. 

Johnny-Ivan's  face  had  paled;  he  was  stricken 
dumb  by  his  knowledge.  It  was  his  father,  his 
father,  who  was  doing  this  terrible  thing !  At  once 
he  was  indignant  and  frightened.  Some  instinct 
warned  him  that  he  could  do  nothing  by  entreaty. 
He  would  tell  his  mother;  she  would  help  the  poor 
woman.  One  single  eye-blink  he  stole  at  his  father's 
stern  face.  He  wished  he  knew  what  he  was  think 
ing.  It  was  rather  a  pity  that  he  couldn't  know, 
since  Winslow's  comment  ran  as  follows :  "What 
an  idiot  I  was  to  go  to  Black's.  Forgot.  I  know  that 
I  told  Holcomb  to  serve  the  writ,  first  pleasant  day. 
There's  the  woman  fighting  and  drinking  and  beat 
ing  those  poor  children  and  the  neighbors  com 
plaining — but  I  didn't  want  to  tell  Johnny  that! 
He  knows  nothing  about  such  things.  I  hope  he 
didn't  take  in  what  she  was  hollering,  damn  her! 
Holcomb's  got  money  to  quiet  her;  why  didn't  he?" 
Aloud  he  said :  "You  don't  need  to  worry  about 


THE   GOLDEN   AGE  49 

those  children,  Johnny ;  that  officer  will  see  to  them. 
He'll  see  to  the  mother,  too." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Johnny-Ivan,  with  a  child's 
superficial,  misleading  docility. 

But  he  carried  the  episode  straight  to  his 
mother,  who  was  as  moved  as  he  could  wish,  and 
promised  to  see  about  it  and  help  the  poor  woman. 

"Papa'll  do  what's  right,  when  he  knows  the 
truth,"  she  assured  Johnny-Ivan;  and  later,  having 
hunted  up  the  woman  and  paid  for  the  cartage  of  her 
goods  to  a  new  domicile  (in  the  Patch),  she  told 
her  son  that  the  neighbors  had  told  lies  about  the 
woman  to  papa.  There  the  incident  closed.  The 
impression  remained.  Johnny-Ivan  was  not  quite  so 
much  at  ease  with  his  father ;  he  did  not  admire  him 
with  such  an  unbounded  trust.  There  was  a 
shadowy  fear  which  had  never  been  before.  Of 
nights,  when  he  slept  poorly,  possibly  on  account  of 
the  cook's  remarkable  choice  of  dainties  for  a  child's 
digestion,  he  would  weary  his  head  over  problems 
not  good  for  his  youth.  He  wondered  why  there  are 
poor  people.  One  day  he  brought  his  puzzle  to  his 
mother,  who  only  sighed :  "There  are  many  cruel 
and  greedy  people  in  the  world;  they  want  all  the 
luxuries  and  they  are  not  willing  to  give  their  luxu 
ries  to  let  the  poor  people  have  plain  bread."  Later, 
after  much  thought,  he  asked  his  father,  who  looked 
at  him  sharply  through  his  glasses,  saying :  "Well, 
son,  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  older  than  I  am  before 
you  understand  that;  you  see,  you  treat  any  poor 
people  you  meet  decently,  and  don't  worry  about  it ; 
there  aren't  many  poor  people  in  Fairport." 

"There's  a  very  poor  family  down  on  the  Patch," 


50  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

said  Johnny — he  thought  he  wouldn't  begin  at  once 
with  the  evicted  family,  but  try  less  obnoxious  suf 
ferers  first — "there's  a  little  boy  big's  me ;  can  I  give 
him  my  coat?" 

"No,  nor  anything  else  without  asking.  I'll  see 
he  has  a  coat  if  he  needs  it.  What's  his  name?" 

"Serge  Rodin." 

"That  hound's  nephew?  You  keep  away  from 
them,  Johnny ;  they  are  bad  people,  very  bad.  Mind 
you  don't  go  near  them." 

Johnny  was  silent ;  his  father  took  him  on  his  knee 
and  gave  him  a  simple,  adapted-to-youth  version  of 
nihilists  and  their  dynamic  ways;  he  was  troubled 
by  the  child's  unresponsive  attention.  He  asked  no 
questions;  all  his  comment  was  an  obedient,  "No, 
sir,  I  won't  go !"  making  no  sign  of  emotion  over  the 
atrocities  of  bombs  and  bomb-throwers.  Winslow 
put  him  off  his  knee ;  and  Johnny  caught  a  mutter : 
"I  believe  she's  begun." 

Johnny  was  glad  to  be  free  to  run  to  his  mother. 
Winslow's  harangue  was  repeated  with  a  child's 
literalness,  the  tale  ending,  "And  I  didn't  say  a 
word,  mamma,  like  you  said  I  never  was  to ;  I  sup 
pose  I  might  to  papa,  but  I  didn't;  he  don't  know, 
mamma ;  you'll  have  to  tell  him.  He  thinks  our  nice 
nihilists  are  wicked.  He's  been  told  lies,  I  guess, 
just  like  he  was  'bout  Mrs.  Wiggins." 

His  mother  kissed  him.  "That's  my  own  brave 
boy  who  can  be  trusted !  Don't  tell  any  one,  galub- 
chik;  and  if  your  papa  wants  you  not  to  see  Serge, 
all  very  well ;  don't  you  go ;  /  will  get  Serge  what  he 
needs." 

But  the  sorrows  of  the  poor  and  the  wrongs  of  the 


THE   GOLDEN   AGE  51 

misunderstood  nihilists  could  only  disturb  a  healthy 
child  in  passing;  Johnny-Ivan  was  too  busy  with 
his  own  crowded  interests  to  be  puzzled  or  saddened 
long.  Besides  his  father  and  his  mother,  there  were 
two  other  very  dear  friends  of  his  in  Fairport  be 
fore  Peggy  came.  There  was  Mishka,  who  was  al 
most  as  splendid  as  Kaler.  He  was  so  strong  he 
could  wrestle  with  the  colt  and  throw  the  colt.  He 
never  got  cross ;  he  was  always  smiling  and  pleasant 
and  willing  to  let  a  boy  ride  behind  him  when  he 
went  after  the  cows.  He  used  to  be  good  to  the 
horses.  He  would  say,  in  Russian,  "Forward,  my 
little  pigeons!"  so  much  nicer  than  "G'lang,"  or 
"Getup."  Also  he  played  on  the  harmonica  and 
sang  Down  the  Little  Mother  Volga  and  other 
beautiful  Russian  songs ;  and  he  called  Johnny  gos- 
podi — Sir.  Johnny  loved  Michael. 

There  was  still  another  person  of  deep  importance 
in  his  little  world  whom  he  loved.  Not  Serge  Vas- 
silovitch,  although  his  mother  had  told  him  that 
Serge  was  a  patriot  and  had  been  to  Siberia ;  he  re 
spected  Serge  deeply,  but  somehow  he  couldn't  quite 
love  him ;  he  used  to  scowl  and  curse  so  much,  and 
the  waft  of  whisky,  always  heralding  his  presence, 
made  Johnny's  nose  wrinkle.  He  admired  her,  but 
he  had  no  more  ardent  feeling  for  his  nurse,  Hilma, 
whose  character  was  very  firm  and  who  exacted 
obedience  by  methods  which  Johnny  was  too  hon 
orable  to  carry  to  his  natural  protectors,  but  which 
he  disliked  excessively.  The  new  cook  was  a  truly 
superior  woman;  he  liked  the  other  maids;  and  the 
gardener  and  Timothy  Doolan  and  Fritz,  the  sta 
ble-boy,  all  were  kind,  delightful,  accomplished  per- 


52  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

sons.  Still  he  did  not  precisely  love  them;  they 
weren't  like  mamma  and  papa. 

But  he  did  love  Aunty  Winter.  She  lived  all  by 
herself  in  a  beautiful  big  house,  as  big  as  Overlook; 
and  she  always  gave  a  boy  something  nice  to  eat. 
Likewise  he  enjoyed  her  conversation.  "She  seems 
such  a  sprightly  lady,"  he  confided  to  his  mother,  in 
his  little  old-fashioned  phraseology. 

Aunty  Winter  never  had  reveries ;  but  all  "grown 
ups"  appeared  to  have  some  difficulties  of  approach. 
In  Aunty  Winter's  case  the  blight  on  real  enjoyment 
of  her  conversation  came  from  solitaire.  So  often 
when  Johnny  called  she  would  be  busy  with  her 
cards  spread  before  her,  playing  a  most  difficult 
game  of  solitaire,  called  Penelope's  Web.  Later, 
when  he  was  older  and  not  so  happy,  she  taught  him 
the  game.  She  used  to  say  that  Johnny  Winslow 
was  the  only  being  she  knew  (herself  excepted)  who 
ever  succeeded  in  conquering  Penelope's  Web  three 
times  in  one  evening.  "In  consequence,"  said  Mrs. 
Winter,  with  a  curious  little  uplifting  of  her  beau 
tiful  eyebrows,  wrhich  all  her  friends  knew  as  a  kind 
of  ironic  parenthesis  around  her  marks  of  enthusi 
asm,  "when  Hopkins  dies  I  shall  vote  all  my  stock 
to  make  him  the  next  president  of  the  Old  Colony !" 

If  Johnny  admired  Mrs.  Winter,  he  had  company 
a  plenty.  She  was  used  to  admiration,  having 
been  a  Southern  belle  before  the  war,  a  belle  in 
Washington  during  the  sixties,  and  a  very  hand 
some  woman  ever  since. 

Her  age,  at  this  time,  was  nearer  fifty  than 
forty;  but  she  looked  a  good  ten  years  younger; 
her  erect,  slim  little  figure  moved  as  lightly  as  a 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE  53 

girl's;  her  brilliant  hazel  eyes  were  undimmed  by 
even  a  transient  screen  of  glass ;  and  her  white  teeth 
flashed  over  her  own  or  any  one's  else  wit  with  a 
youthful  vivacity. 

Fairport  admired  Mrs.  Winter  almost  with  aban 
don  :  it  quoted  her  epigrams,  which  shone  the  more 
that  the  West  is  less  given  to  epigram  than  to  hu 
mor,  wherefore  she  had  few  rivals ;  it  laughed  itself 
into  tears  over  her  mimicries;  it  praised  her  house 
keeping  and  her  lavish  entertainments;  it  accepted 
her  loyally  for  its  social  leader.  Yet  there  was  al 
ways,  deep  down,  an  uneasy  distrust.  She  was  very 
good-natured,  but  she  "made  fun"  of  people.  And 
the  gifted  imitator  of  Luke  Darrell  driving  a  horse 
trade;  or  of  old  lady  Carlisle,  who  was  deaf  as  a 
post,  but  insisted  on  conversing  at  funerals,  might 
make  the  auditors  of  one  joyous  hour  the  subjects 
of  another.  So  there  was  a  reserve  in  Fairport's  af 
fection,  although  none  in  either  its  admiration  or  its 
obedience. 

Little  did  Johnny  reck  of  any  coldness  or  any 
malice  in  his  kind  friend.  He  was  proud  to  help  her 
deal  her  pretty  pasteboards  (the  reversion  of  which 
fell  to  him  until  Peggy's  arrival,  and  fell  often,  as 
Mrs.  Winter  was  squeamish  about  the  slippery 
freshness  of  her  cards),  and  with  her  ivory  ruler 
he  would  range  the  eight  ranks  of  the  solitaire 
scheme  in  rectangular  accuracy;  or  he  would  pa 
tiently  deal  out  an  exact  replica  of  her  own  problem 
in  order  that  if  her  first  handling  of  the  clues  should 
fail,  she  might  try  over  again. 

"You  are  a  very  useful  little  trick!"  said  Mrs. 
Winter,  "and  you  have  your  father's  dogged  pa- 


54  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

tience.  Let  us  hope  you  won't  fasten  on  to  any 
foolish  purpose,  for  it  will  be  no  joke  getting  you  to 
loose  your  hold !" 

Mrs.  Winter  acted  the  First  Lady  of  the  Ward 
robe,  as  well  as  many  another  amiable  role,  toward 
the  little  boy.  It  was  she  who  designed  those  suits  of 
cotton  or  wool  so  nicely  suited  to  the  occasion  that 
one  would  know  that  they  must  have  originated  in 
the  mind  of  a  woman  of  tact.  They  were  pretty 
yet  comfortable,  whereas  the  Princess  Olga  could 
think  of  nothing  but  a  toilet  of  state,  blue  velvet  and 
Irish  point  and  a  sash  a  boy  couldn't  run  in — if  he 
did,  it  would  trip  him!  She  was  very  glad  to  ac 
cept  her  friend's  kind  offices.  Nor  did  these  stop  at 
sailor  suits  and  pea-jackets  and  leather  leggings; 
Mrs.  Winter  had  a  pair  of  fine  eyes,  always  on 
scout  duty  for  loose  buttons  or  rents.  Hilma  was 
kept  on  a  wire  edge  of  efficiency  in  regard  to  stock 
ings  by  the  slippers  which  Mrs.  Winter  was  unex 
pectedly  forcing  on  her  small  visitor  if  his  feet 
looked  wet  or  he  "didn't  seem  quite  comfortable  in 
those  shoes."  One  could  never  tell  when  stockings 
might  be  inspected;  therefore,  if  the  lace  suffered, 
stockings  must  be  kept  darned. 

The  result  was  that  the  friends  of  the  family  were 
rather  bewildered  by  the  good  estate  of  Johnny's 
clothes ;  but  Mrs.  Winter  and  the  Winslows  kept  the 
secret  to  themselves.  Johnny,  least  of  all,  considered 
the  First  Lady  of  the  Wardrobe's  services  in  this 
line ;  but  he  was  too  grateful  to  her  on  many  other 
counts  to  miss  one.  And  when  all  is  said,  she  was 
nice  enough  in  herself;  and  then,  she  was  Peggy's 
great-aunt. 


THE   GOLDEN   AGE  55 

With  Peggy's  coming,  life  grew  even  more  inter 
esting.  Peggy  had  visited  Mrs.  Winter  the  summer 
before,  because  there  was  yellow  fever  in  Memphis, 
where  the  Rutherfords  lived;  and  this  spring  they 
came  again,  because  Mrs.  Winter  was  lonesome. 
Peggy's  mother  was  with  her ;  she  was  sick,  and  she 
used  to  lie  on  the  sofa  and  write  letters  every  day, 
on  a  block,  to  Peggy's  papa.  Peggy's  papa  was 
a  doctor,  and  he  wasn't  in  the  least  afraid  of  yel 
low  fever  or  anything  else  on  earth.  Peggy  said 
so.  Once  a  man  had  tried  to  shoot  him, — he  prom 
ised  he'd  shoot  him  on  sight ;  and  they  all  sent  word 
that  the  man  was  waiting  on  the  sidewalk;  they 
wanted  Doctor  Rutherford  to  run  out  the  back  way ; 
he  was  just  eating  his  dinner;  he  wasn't  feazed — 
a  mite;  he  grabbed  up  the  carving  knife  and  went 
jumping  down  the  steps,  hollering,  "Where's  he 
at?"  and  when  the  man  with  the  gun  saw  him  com 
ing  he  just  lit  out  so  fast  he  tumbled  down  and  lost 
his  gun.  Doctor  Rutherford  had  it  now.  Oh,  he 
was  a  mighty  brave  man !  So  was  Peggy  brave ; 
she  could  take  a  toad  right  up  in  her  hand;  she 
killed  a  garter-snake  with  a  stick;  she  never  had  a 
light  burning  in  her  room  at  night ;  down  South,  on 
her  uncle's  plantation,  she  used  to  ride  horseback, 
and  she  had  a  little  gun  of  her  own  and  shot  birds, 
and  she  pulled  Johnny-Ivan's  tooth  out  with  a 
string  by  tying  the  string  to  the  door-knob  and 
slamming  the  door.  It  didn't  hurt  so  awful  much ; 
he  didn't  cry.  But  he  cried  when  he,  himself,  pulled 
out  a  real  big  back  tooth  of  Peggy's  the  same  way. 

Poor  Johnny  hated  to  do  the  brutal  deed ;  but  he 
was  determined  to  show  Peggy  (this  was  shortly 


56  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

after,  their  reconciliation)  that  he  would  be  useful 
in  a  Blood  Feud;  and  here  was  a  chance  to  display 
the  coveted  hardness  of  heart.  He  grabbed  the  knob 
(Peggy,  herself,  had  adjusted  the  string  with  a  fine 
air  of  callous  indifference)  ;  he  shut  his  eyes  tight 
and  swung  the  door  with  frenzied  energy.  But  when 
Peggy's  muffled  moan  drove  his  eyes  open,  the  spec 
tacle  of  mingled  blood  and  woe  on  her  beloved 
countenance  overcame  his  hardihood ;  he  wept  aloud. 
Peggy  laughed  at  him;  she  declared  she  wasn't 
hurt. 

"But  you — you — squealed !"  sobbed  Johnny-Ivan ; 
"it  sounded  just  like  the  piggy,  when  Tim  took  him 
away  to  be  killed." 

"I  didn't  squeal,"  denied  Peggy  with  heightened 
color,  "and  you're  a  cry-baby!  No,  you  ain't,"  she 
instantly  corrected ;  "you  never  made  a  sound  when 
I  pulled  your  tooth;  and  I  didn't  squeal,  but  I 
reckon  I  did  kinder  grunt.  It  was  so  sudden." 

Thus  was  peace  restored,  and  so  effectually  that 
Peggy  told  Johnny  she  should  choose  him  to  avenge 
her,  if  any  one  should  murder  her  in  a  Blood  Feud. 

Besides  being  so  brave  and  so  gifted,  Peggy  (al 
though  this  mattered  very  little  to  Johnny-Ivan)  was 
the  prettiest  girl  in  town.  Her  hair  wasn't  at  all  red, 
really;  it  was  only  a  beautiful  bright  color,  like  the 
copper  boiler  in  the  kitchen;  and  she  could  wrinkle 
her  forehead  and  make  her  whole  scalp  move  up  and 
down  as  if  her  hair  were  a  cap.  Johnny-Ivan  often 
begged  her  to  show  him  how  to  do  this  entrancing 
feat ;  but  she  said  it  was  a  "conjure  trick,"  and  she 
couldn't  tell.  Any  one  can  see  how  absorbing 
Peggy's  society  must  be. 


THE   GOLDEN   AGE  57 

In  this  wise  did  Johnny-Ivan  grow  up,  lonely 
but  not  lonesome,  taught  by  the  careless  but  not  un 
kindly  tongue  of  his  father's  domestics,  finding,  by 
the  magic  of  a  child's  alchemy,  gold  in  everything, 
and  being  a  loving  and  happy  child,  although  his 
father  and  his  mother  had  little  happiness  and  less 
love  in  their  relations. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    FAIRPORT    ART    MUSEUM 

After  the  war  was  over,  the  Middle  West  ad 
dressed  itself  to  Culture.  Perhaps  the  husbands  and 
brothers  and  fathers  might  still  be  busy  making 
money;  but  the  women  of  the  West,  whose  energies 
and  emotions  had  been  mightily  roused,  found  life 
a  little  tame  when  there  were  no  more  sanitary  com 
missions,  no  more  great  fairs  or  little  fairs  for  the 
soldiers,  no  more  intense  emotions  over  printed 
sheets.  Then  it  was  that  the  Woman's  Club  lifted  a 
modest  finger  at  the  passing  car  of  progress,  and 
unobtrusively  boarded  it. 

Fairport  was  conservative,  as  always,  but  she 
had  no  mind  to  be  left  behind  in  the  march  of  femi 
nine  fashion.  She  did  not  rush  to  extremes,  but  she 
had  women's  clubs  in  1881.  The  chief  of  these 
were  The  Ladies'  Literary  Club  and  the  Spinsters' 
Alliance.  Both  clubs  tackled  the  same  great  themes 
of  ethics  and  art,  and  allotted  a  winter  to  the  litera 
ture  of  a  nation,  except  in  the  case  of  Greek  and 
Roman  literatures,  which  were  not  considered  able 
to  occupy  a  whole  winter  apiece,  so  they  were 
studied  in  company.  The  club  possessed  a  proper 
complement  of  officers,  and  their  meetings  went  from 
house  to  house.  They  were  conducted  with  artless 

53 


THE   FAIRPORT   ART   MUSEUM  59 

simplicity,  in  a  pleasant,  conversational  manner,  but 
with  due  regard  to  polite  forms ;  and  only  at  a  mo 
ment  of  excitement  was  the  chair  addressed  by  her 
Christian  name. 

Naturally,  the  women's  clubs  were  deeply  stirred 
by  the  first  great  World's  Fair  in  America.  But 
the  whole  West  was  moved.  It  turned  to  art  with 
a  joyous  ardor,  the  excited  happiness  of  a  child  that 
finds  a  new  beauty  in  the  world.  Why  had  we  not 
thought  of  the  artistic  regeneration  of  our  sordid 
life  before?  Never  mind,  we  would  make  amends 
for  lost  time  by  spending  more  money!  In  very 
truth  the  years  following  the  Centennial  witnessed 
an  extraordinary  awakening  of  worship  of  beauty, 
almost  religious  in  its  fervor.  Passionate  pilgrims 
ransacked  Europe  and  the  Orient ;  a  prodigal  horde 
of  their  captives,  objects  of  luxury  and  of  art, 
surged  into  galleries  and  museums  and  households. 
No  cold  critical  taste  weeded  out  these  adorable 
aliens.  The  worst  and  the  best  conquered,  together. 
Our  architecture,  our  furniture,  our  household  sur 
roundings  were  metamorphosed  as  by  enchantment. 
And  the  feature  of  mark  in  it  all  was  the  unparal 
leled  diffusion  of  the  new  faith.  Not  the  great  cities 
only;  the  towns,  the  villages,  the  hamlets,  caught 

fire. 

Of  course,  Fairport  went  to  Philadelphia;  and 
Fairport  was  converted.  It  followed,  at  once,  that 
the  women's  clubs  of  the  place  should  serve  most 
zealously  at  the  altar;  and  nothing  could  be  more 
inevitable  than  that  in  course  of  time  there  should  be 
a  concrete  manifestation  of  zeal.  Hence  the  mem 
orable  Art  Museum,  the  fame  of  which  to  this  day 


60  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

will  revive,  when  there  is  a  meeting  of  the  solid 
and  gray-haired  matrons  who  were  the  light-footed 
girls  of  the  Alliance,  and  the  talk  falls  on  the  old 
times. 

The  art  collection  would  give  its  admirers  shivers 
to-day,  but  it  excited  only  happy  complacency  then. 
The  mood  of  the  hour  was  not  critical.  The  homes 
of  the  Fairport  gentry  held  innumerable  oil 
copies  of  the  great  masters  of  different  degrees  of 
merit,  which  they  loaned  secure  of  welcome;  with 
them  came  family  treasures  so  long  held  in  reverence 
that  their  artistic  value  (coldly  considered)  had 
been  lost  to  comparison,  and  the  gems  of  accom 
plished  amateurs  who  painted  flowers  on  china  cups, 
or  of  rising  young  artists  who  had  not  as  yet  risen 
beyond  the  circle  of  trusting  friends  in  town. 

In  general,  the  donors'  expectation  of  gratitude 
was  justified,  but  even  so  early  as  1881  there  were 
limits  to  artistic  credulity ;  and  some  offerings  drove 
the  club  president,  Miss  Claudia  Loraine,  and  the 
club  secretary,  Miss  Emma  Hopkins,  to  "the  coal 
hole."  This  was  a  wee  closet  under  the  stairs,  where 
the  coal  scuttles  were  ranged,  until  they  should  fare 
forth  to  replenish  the  "base  burners"  which  warmed 
the  Museum  home.  In  real  life  the  name  of  the 
Museum's  lodgings  was  Harness  Block,  and  Mr. 
Harness  had  proffered  the  cause  of  art  two  empty 
stores,  formerly  a  fish  market  and  a  grocery.  As 
there  was  no  private  office  (only  a  wire  cage),  when 
Miss  Hopkins  felt  the  need  of  frank  speech  she  sig 
naled  Claudia  to  the  coal  hole. 

She  was  closeted  with  her  thus  on  the  morning 
of  the  second  day.  The  subject  of  the  conference 


THE   FAIRPORT   ART   MUSEUM  61 

was  the  last  assault  on  the  nerves  of  the  committee, 
perpetrated  by  the  Miller  twins — not  in  person,  but 
with  their  china.  The  china,  itself,  had  the  outward 
semblance  of  ordinary  blue  earthenware  of  a  cheap 
grade;  but  the  Miller  twins  were  convinced  (on  the 
testimony  of  their  dear  old  minister,  who  never  told 
a  lie  in  his  life,  and  who  had  heard  the  Millers' 
grandmother  say — and  everybody  knows  that  she 
was  a  saint  on  earth,  and  she  was  ninety  years  old 
at  the  time,  and  would  she  be  likely  to  lie  almost  on 
her  dying  bed?  You  might  call  it  her  dying  bed, 
averred  Miss  Miller,  since  she  was  bedridden  for 
two  years  before  her  death,  on  that  same  old  four- 
poster  bedstead  which  belonged  to  her  mother,  and 
at  last  died  on  it)  that  the  blue  ware  had  been  the 
property  of  George  the  Third,  had  been  sold  and 
was  on  board  the  ship  with  the  tea  which  was  rifled 
in  Boston  Harbor.  They  had  insisted  in  pasting 
these  royal  claims  upon  the  china  in  the  blackest 
and  neatest  lettering.  The  awkward  fact  that  earth 
enware  does  not  usually  grace  a  royal  board,  or 
that  the  saintly  old  grandmother  mixed  up  dates 
and  persons  in  a  wonderful  way  during  her  latter 
days,  made  no  difference  to  her  loyal  descendants. 
Each  platter  with  the  black  chipping  betraying 
plainly  its  lowly  origin,  each  tea-cup  mended  with 
cement,  bore  the  paper-claim  pasted  securely  upon  it. 
"It  took  us  a  whole  afternoon,"  said  Miss  Tina 
Miller,  "but  it's  so  precious  and  there  might  be  other 
blue  ware  and  it  might  get  mixed — you'll  insure  it, 
Miss  Hopkins?  not  that  money  could  replace  such 
things,  but,  at  least" — Miss  Tina  Miller  always  left 
her  sentences  in  the  air,  seemingly  too  diffident  to 


62  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

complete  them,  once  the  auditors  were  assured  of 
their  import. 

The  Millers  kept  a  tiny  little  house  on  a  tiny  little 
income;  but  gave  of  all  they  had  to  give,  them 
selves,  without  stint.  They  were  public-spirited 
women  if  Fairport  ever  held  any  such.  Although 
they  had  neither  brothers  nor  cousins  to  go  to  the 
war,  they  had  picked  lint  and  made  bandages  and 
trudged  with  subscription  papers  and  scrimped  for 
weeks  to  have  money  to  spend  at  the  patriotic  fairs. 
In  consequence  they  were  deeply  respected,  so  re 
spected  that  it  was  simply  impossible  to  refuse  their 
unselfish  offering  of  their  dearest  god. 

"I  think  it  just  noble  of  you/'  said  Miss  Tina. 
"Sister  and  I  felt  we  must  help ;  so  we  brought  the 
King  George  china  and  a  little  pencil  head  our  sis 
ter  Euphrosyne  did.  The  one  who  died,  you  know. 
I'm  sorry  all  your — art  things — aren't  in  yet.  No,  I 
can't  come  to-morrow ;  I  shall  be  very  busy — sister 
may  come — thank  you." 

Both  the  keen  young  listeners  knew  why  Miss 
Tina  could  not  come;  it  was  neither  more  nor  less 
than  the  admission  fee. 

"But  I'll  take  care  of  that,"  said  Emma  to  Claudia 
in  the  coal  hole.  "Elly  is  going  to  give  her  and  Miss 
Ally  each  a  season  ticket." 

"Then  we're  in  for  the  King  George  china!" 
groaned  Claudia  softly. 

"We  are,"  said  Emma.  "I've  put  it  in  a  good  but 
not  too  good  a  place,  and  Mr.  Winslow  is  inspecting 
it  now." 

"And  he  knows  about  china;  he's  sent  lovely 
things,"  mourned  Claudia. 


THE   FAIRPORT   ART   MUSEUM  63 

"Oh,  well,  he  knows  about  the  Miller  girls,  too," 
said  Emma,  smiling;  "I  think  he'll  forgive  us." 

"You'd  better  go  explain,"  urged  Claudia,  "and 
throw  in  that  landscape  with  the  cow  that  seems  to 
have  five  legs  and  belongs  to  Mr.  Harness.  Perhaps 
he'll  forgive  that,  too." 

Emma  went, — she  was  an  amiable  girl.  She  was 
not  pretty  like  her  sister,  Mrs.  Raimund,  who  had 
married  the  great  railway  man  and  was  a  power  in 
Chicago  society;  but  there  was  something  in  the 
radiant  neatness  and  good  humor  of  the  plain  sister 
which  made  her  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

Winslow's  mouth  and  eyes  relaxed  at  her  greet 
ing,  and  he  smiled  over  her  official  quotation  of  the 
Millers'  claims. 

"King  George's  table?  H'mn ;  which  table,  second 
or  third?"  His  eyes  twinkled  at  Emma,  whose  own 
eyes  twinkled  back. 

"They're  awfully  good  women,"  said  she,  in  a 
kind  of  compunction. 

"None  better,"  said  he. 

As  he  passed  on,  with  his  little  son  at  his  side, 
she  thought :  "He  isn't  nearly  so  grim  as  I  used  to 
think." 

Mrs.  Winslow  and  Mrs.  Winter  were  a  few  paces 
behind.  They  halted  before  the  china,  which  Mrs. 
Winter  examined;  but  Mrs.  Winslow's  weary  eyes 
lingered  hardly  a  moment  before  they  found  some 
other  object  on  which  to  rest  and  leave  as  briefly. 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  this  priceless  relic  won't  be 
damaged  in  any  way/'  said  Mrs.  Winter.  "Still" — 
she  bent  confidentially  toward  Emma — "if  such  a 
calamity  should  occur,  I  know  a  shop  in  Chicago 


64  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

where  you  can  get  plenty  more  for  three  dollars  and 
ninety-nine  cents." 

"I  hope  nothing  will  happen  to  it,"  said  Emma, 
with  stolid  reticence. 

Mrs.  Winslow  had  not  listened,  her  listless  face 
had  been  transformed;  it  was  illumined  now  by  the 
loveliest  of  smiles;  she  half  put  out  her  hand  as  a 
little  boy  snuggled  up  to  her  silken  skirts,  with  a 
laugh. 

"Papa  letted  me  come,"  he  said  gaily,  "and 
Peggy's  here,  too, — there !" 

Peggy  was  attired  with  great  care,  her  long  red 
curls  were  shining  and  her  eyes  sparkled. 

Immediately  both  children  were  immersed  in  the 
beauties  of  a  collection  of  rejected  models  which 
had  been  obtained  from  the  patent  office,  and  which, 
surely,  were  the  most  diverting  toys  imaginable. 

"Poor  things,  to  them  they  are  most  valuable!" 
sighed  Mrs.  Winslow.  She  was  making  conversa 
tion  about  the  Miller  china;  but  Johnny-Ivan  and 
Peggy  not  unreasonably  conceived  that  she  spoke 
of  the  beautiful  churns  and  hayraking  wagons  and 
cars  and  wheeled  chairs  and  the  like  marvels  which 
Miss  Hopkins  was  amiably  explaining  for  them. 

"The  least  chip  would  be  irreparable,  I  suppose," 
continued  Mrs.  Winter,  "thousands  couldn't  pay  if 
one  were  broken !" 

"Imagine  the  feelings  of  the  custodian,"  said 
Emma.  "I'm  in  a  tremble  all  the  time." 

"I  pity  you,"  said  Mrs.  Winter,  as  the  two  ladies 
passed  on  to  Mrs.  Winter's  great-grandmother's 
blue  and  white  embroidered  bedspread. 

"Oh,  Peggy,  do  be  careful!"  whispered  Johnny- 


THE   FAIRPORT   ART   MUSEUM  65 

Ivan ;  Peggy  was  sending  a  velocipede  in  dizzy  cir 
cles  round  the  counter. 

Now  fate  had  ordered  that  at  this  critical  instant 
the  children  should  be  unguarded.  Miss  Hopkins 
had  stepped  aside  at  the  call  of  an  agitated  lady  who 
had  lost  one  of  her  art  treasures  in  carriage;  for 
the  moment,  there  was  no  one  near  save  a  freckled 
boy  in  shabby  overalls,  who  eyed  the  toys  wistfully 
from  afar.  He  was  the  same  little  boy  whom 
Johnny-Ivan  had  bribed  with  a  jack-knife  to  close 
the  gate  a  few  weeks  before;  and  he  was  in  the 
Museum  to  help  his  mother,  the  scrub-woman  of  the 
store. 

Peggy  grew  more  pleased  with  her  play.  The 
velocipede  described  wider  and  wider  gyrations  with 
accelerating  speed ;  its  keen  buzz  swelled  on  the  air. 

"It'll  hit  somepin !"  warned  Johnny-Ivan  in  an  ac 
cess  of  fear. 

But  Peggy's  soul  was  dauntless  to  recklessness. 
"No,  it  won't,"  she  flung  back.  Her  shining  head 
was  between  Johnny  and  the  whirling  wheels.  He 
thought  a  most  particularly  beautiful  little  swing 
ing  gate  in  peril  and  tried  to  swerve  the  flying 
thing;  how  it  happened,  neither  of  the  children 
knew ;  there  was  a  smash,  a  crash,  and  gate  and  ve 
locipede  lay  in  splinters  under  a  bronze  bust.  The 
glass  of  the  show-case  was  etched  with  a  sinister 
gray  line. 

"Now  look  what  you've  done !"  exclaimed  Peggy, 
with  the  natural  irritation  of  disaster.  "Oh,  my!" 
squeaked  the  shabby  little  boy,  "won't  you  catch  it !" 
Peggy's  anger  was  swallowed  up  in  fright  and  sym 
pathy  ;  she  pushed  Johnny-Ivan  ahead  of  her.  "That 


66  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

Miss  Hopkins  is  looking,"  cried  she,  "get  behind 
these  folks  down  the  aisle !" 

She  propelled  the  little  boy  out  of  the  immediate 
neighborhood  of  the  calamity ;  she  forced  a  wicked, 
deceitful  smile  (alas!  guile  comes  easy  to  her  sex) 
and  pointed  out  things  to  him,  whispering,  "Look 
pleasant!  Don't  be  so  scared!  They'll  never  know 
we  did  it!"  Already  she  was  shouldering  her  share 
in  crime,  with  a  woman's  willingness;  she  said  "we" 
quite  unconsciously;  but  she  added  (and  this  was 
of  direct  volition)  :  "I  did  it  more'n  you;  you  were 
just  trying  to  keep  the  nasty  thing  straight ;  I  was  a 
heap  more  to  blame.  Anyhow,  I  guess  it  ain't  so 
awful  bad.  Just  those  wooden  things !" 

Johnny-Ivan  shook  a  tragic  head;  even  his  lips 
had  gone  bluish-white.  "She  said  thousands 
wouldn't  repair  the  damage,"  moaned  he. 

"You  can't  make  me  believe  those  mean  little 
wooden  tricks  are  worth  any  thousand  dollars!" 
volleyed  Peggy ;  nevertheless,  her  heart  beat  faster, 
— grown  people  are  so  queer.  "Are  you  sure  she 
meant  them?  Maybe  it  was  those  things  in  the  next 
glass  case,  they're  her  own  things !  They're  some 
kind  of  Chinese  china  and  cost  a  heap."  Peggy's 
sturdy  womanly  wits  were  rising  from  the  shock. 

"And  the  show-case  is  broked !"  sniffed  Johnny- 
Ivan,  gulping  down  a  sob. 

"It  ain't  broke,  it's  only  cracked;  'sides,  it  was 
cracked  a  right  smart  befo' !" 

"But  this  was  a  new  place — I  know,  'cause  I  cut 
my  finger  on  the  other,  scraping  it  over." 

"Well,  anyhow,  I  reckon  it  didn't  be  much  value/' 
Peggy  insisted. 


THE   FAIRPORT   ART   MUSEUM  67 

"I  saw  that  young  lady  come  back," — Johnny- 
Ivan  had  switched  on  to  a  new  track  leading  to 
grisly  possibilities — "maybe  she'll  find  it!" 
5  "Well,  we're  gone,  all  right." 

"That  little  boy  isn't." 

Peggy  gave  an  unprincipled  giggle.  "Maybe 
she'll  think  it  was  him." 

"Then  we  got  to  tell,"  moaned  Johnny. 

"No,  we  ain't.  He'll  run  off  and  so  she  won't  ask 
him  questions." 

"But  she'll  think  it's  him.  It'll  be  mean." 

"No  it  won't." 

"It's  mean  to  have  somebody  else  take  your  blame 
or  your  punishment ;  mamma  said  so." 

The  small  casuist  was  too  discreet  to  attack  John 
ny's  oracle ;  she  only  pouted  her  pretty  lips  and  quib 
bled: 

"  'Tain't  mean  if  the  people  who  get  blamed  are 
mean  themselves — like  him.  I  don't  care  how 
blamed  he  gets ;  I  wouldn't  care  if  he  got  licked." 

But  Johnny's  conscience  was  not  so  elastic.  "I 
don't  care,  either,"  he  protested.  "I — I  wouldn't 
care  if  he  was  deaded" — anxious  to  propitiate — 
"but  it  would  be  mean  just  the  same.  I  got  to  tell 
papa,  Peggy,  I  truly  have." 

Peggy  grew  very  cross.  "You  are  just  the  foolest, 
obsternatist  little  boy  I  ever  did  see,"  she  grumbled ; 
"you're  a  plumb  idiot!  I'd  like  to  slap  you!  Your 
papa'll  be  awful  mad." 

Johnny-Ivan  essayed  an  indifferent  mien,  but  his 
eyes  were  miserable. 

"Say,  Jo'nivan," — her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper 
that  curdled  his  blood — "were  you  ever  spanked?" 


68  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"Only  Hilma  sorter  kinder — not  really  spanking, 
you  know/'  confessed  Johnny  with  a  toss  of  his 
head.  "I  just  made  faces  at  her;  I  didn't  cry!"  he 
bragged. 

"Never  your  mamma  or  your  papa?" 

"Course  not,"  said  Johnny  with  a  haughty  air; 
but,  "Peggy,"  he  said  very  low,  "were  you — did — " 

"Oh,  my,  yes !  Mammy  did  when  I  was  little.  I'm 
too  big  now." 

"I'm  too  big,  too,  now,  ain't  I  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Peggy.  "Wulf  Greiner  was 
licked  by  teacher,  and  he's  thirteen.  It's  whether  it's 
mighty  bad,  you  know." 

Johnny-Ivan  caught  his  breath  and  his  legs  shook 
under  him ;  the  horror  of  his  father's  "licking"  him 
came  over  him  cold;  it  was  not  the  pain;  he  had 
never  minded  Hilma's  sturdy  blows  and  he  had  let 
Michael  cut  a  splinter  out  of  his  thumb  with  a 
pocket-knife,  and  never  whimpered;  it  was  the  ig 
nominy,  the  unknown  terror  of  his  father's  wrath 
that  loomed  awful  to  him.  As  he  looked  down  the 
crowded  room  and  suddenly  beheld  Winslow's  face 
bent  gravely  over  Miss  Hopkins,  who  was  talking 
earnestly,  he  could  hardly  move  his  feet.  Yet  he  had 
no  thought  of  wavering.  "I  got  to  tell,"  he  said, 
and  walked  as  fast  as  he  could,  with  his  white  face, 
straight  to  the  group. 

Winslow  looked  down  and  saw  the  two  children ; 
any  one  could  discover  the  signals  of  calamity  in 
their  faces :  Peggy's  a  fine  scarlet  and  Johnny-Ivan's 
grayish-white. 

"What's  the  matter,  Johnny?"  asked  Winslow. 

Johnny's  eyelids  were  glued  tight — just  as  they 


!<  MAMMA,   I    WISHT    YOU    WAS    A    QUEEN1. 


THE    FAIRPORT    ART    MUSEUM  69 

were  when  he  pulled  Peggy's  tooth — he  blurted 
everything  out  breathlessly  :  "  I've  done  something 
awful,  papa!  It'll  cost  thousands  of  dollars." 

Emma  Hopkins  had  considered  Winslow  an  un 
attractive  man,  of  a  harsh  visage,  but  now,  as  he 
looked  at  his  little  son,  she  changed  her  mind. 

"What  did  you  do,  son?"  said  he  quietly;  his 
hand  found  Johnny's  brown  curls  and  lay  on  them 
a  second. 

' '  He  did'nt  do  it,  reajly  ;  it  was  me"  Peggy  broke 
in,  too  agitated  for  grammar.  "  I  was  playing  with 
the  little  tricks  on  the  table,  the  models,  sah,  and  I 
was  making  the  v'losipid  run  round  and  he  was 
'fraid  I'd  break  it;  but  /did  it,  really,  sah." 

"  And  the  model  fell  on  to  something  valuable? 
I  see." 

"  But  he  was'nt  playing  with  it,  he  was  only  try 
ing  to  keep  me  from  breaking — " 

"  Well,  young  lady,  you  two  are  evidently  in  the 
same  boat ;  but  you  aren't  a  bit  sneaky,  either  of 
you.  Let's  see  the  wreckage  ;  I  suppose  you  got  into 
trouble  because  you  wanted  to  see  how  things 
worked,  and  Johnny,  as  usual,  couldn't  keep  out  of 
other  folks'  hot  water.  Where's  the  ruin?" 

"The  show-case  is  broked,  too,"  said  Johnny- 
Ivan  in  a  woeful,  small  voice. 

"  But  it  was  cracked  before,"  interjected   Peggy. 

Winslow  looked  at  her  with  a  little  twist.  *  'That's 
a  comfort,"  said  he,  "and  you  have  horse  sense, 
my  little  Southerner.  I  guess  you  didn't  either  of 
you  mean  any  harm — " 

"  Indeed,  no,  sah,  and  Johnny  was  just  as  good ; 
never  touched  a  thing — " 


70  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

"But  you  see  your  intentions  didn't  protect  you. 
Distrust  good  intentions,  my  dears ;  look  out  for  the 
possible  consequences.  However,  I  think  there  is 
one  person  to  blame  you  haven't  mentioned,  and  that 
is  one  Josiah  C.  Winslow,  who  let  two  such  giddy 
young  persons  explore  by  themselves.  Contributory 
negligence  is  proved ;  and  said  Winslow  will  pay  the 
bill  and  not  kick." 

So  saying,  he  took  Peggy's  warm,  chubby  little 
fingers  in  one  of  his  big  white  hands  and  Johnny- 
Ivan's  cold  little  palm  in  tlie  other,  and  nodded  a 
farewell  to  Emma.  Emma  watched  him ;  she  did  not 
realize  how  vividly  more  than  one  emotion  was 
painted  on  her  usually  placid  face,  any  more  than  she 
was  aware  of  Olga  Winslow's  dark  eyes. 

"I  don't  know  why,  but  I  dislike  that  girl,"  said 
Olga  to  Mrs.  Winter. 

"Emma  Hopkins?  I  shouldn't  have  said  she  had 
enough  distinction  about  her  to  be  disliked;  she  al 
ways  seemed  to  me  like  apple  dumplings,  whole 
some,  but  not  intoxicating.  You  can't  get  up  any  ar 
dent  feelings  about  them !  Now,  Mrs.  Raimund — " 

"Mrs.  Raimund" — Olga  waved  her  hands  impa 
tiently  in  a  foreign  gesture — "she  has  a  kind  of 
beauty,  but  she  bores  one,  she  is  so  shallow.  Now 
this  young  woman — she's  deep.  And  I  do  not  like 
her.  I  will  tell  you,"  she  added  directly.  "I  know 
whom  she  resembles.  Oh,  immensely !  It  is  my  hus 
band, — it  is  Mr.  Winslow.  I  never  understood  him ; 
she  would  never  be  at  a  loss.  They  are  cut  out  of 
the  same  piece  of  cloth." 

"I  never  saw  any  resemblance," — began  Mrs. 
Winter,  a  little  amused,  a  little  embarrassed. 


THE   FAIRPORT   ART   MUSEUM  71 

"Nor  I  until  to-day.  But — do  you  believe  in  pre 
sentiments  ?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  replied  Mrs.  Winter  cheerfully. 

"Me,  I  do  believe.  Well,  cherie,  I  feel  that  young 
woman  will  have,  some  day,  everything  I  love  best, 
yes.  So  I— I  hate  her!" 

"You  talk  as  if  you  thought  she  would  marry 
your  husband." 

"Some  day  she  will.  But  she  shall  not  have  Ivan." 

"My  dear  friend,  this  is — well,  you  are  not  talk 
ing  sense !" 

"No  ?  But  you  will  see  it.  Ugh !  it  bothers  me ; 
let  us  look  at  these  strange  artistic  moods  of  our 
town.  Was  there  ever  anything  cruder !  You  Amer 
icans  think  you  can  buy  anything.  Art  isn't  bought, 
it  grows.  The  redeeming  grace  of  an  aristocracy  is 
its — ah,  what  shall  I  say? — its  heritage  of  beauty, 
luxury,  splendor.  Our  daily  life  at  home  doesn't 
put  on  these  things,  they  are  a  veritable  part  of  it. 
Here,  why,  you  are  like  an  Indian  in  breech-clout 
and  a  dress-coat,  your  pomp  is  so  incongruous,  so 
assumed." 

"Yet — you  say  you  revolt  from  your  own  coun 
try's  manner  of  living,  for  all  it's  so  refined." 

"Nu.  We  pay  too  high  a  price  for  repose  and 
refinement.  We  are  unconscious  vampires,  whose 
luxury  and  taste  are  drawn  out  of  the  veins  of  the 
poor  starved,  stunted  mujiks.  That  is  why  my  heart 
went  forth  to  you  Americans — until  I  knew  you.  I 
thought  you  were  free,  free  in  your  souls,  not  only 
just  free  to  sell  your  votes.  I  thought  you  loved  your 
poor  brothers  and  there  was  a  chance  for  the  poor 
est—" 


f2  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

"There  is,"  said  Mrs.  Winter  dryly,  "if  he  is 
willing  to  work  and  has  brains.  Just  look  at  your 
own  husband ;  he  has  made  every  dollar  of  his  mil 
lions." 

"Ah,  but  look  you !  he  has  brains  and — he  can  be 
cruel,  he  can  push  the  weaker  aside.  Even  in  Rus 
sia  a  man  with  those  qualities  can  win  money  and  a 
place.  Bozhe  moil*  Does  it  not  seem  absurd  to  have 
believed  that  Americans,  the  most  brutally  relentless 
of  all  races  but  only  the  English,  to  have  believed 
that  they  would  love  and  help  the  weak  ?  Yet  I  be 
lieved  it.  Ah,  can't  you  see  the  only  valid  reason, 
the  only  living  excuse  for  a  democracy  is  that  it 
should  share  with  the  humblest?  A  democracy  must 
be  crude  and  chaotic;  it  can't  have  the  leisure  and 
the  serenity  to  be  beautiful ;  but  there  is  a  beauty  of 
the  spirit  that  is  greater;  kindness  and  sincerity 
and  truth  and  courage :  they  are  the  most  beautiful 
of  all !  Do  you  think  if  I  had  found  my  dreams  true, 
and  you  were  trying  to  deck  the  bare  homes  of  the 
poor  with  these  bibelots,  I  should  find  anything  of 
the  ridiculous !  Me,  I  should  be  on  my  knees  to  you ! 
Nor  would  there  be  so  much  to  ridicule ;  the  worst 
art  is  born  of  pretense — I  speak  your  language  so 
poorly.  I  can't  explain  myself !" 

"You  speak  English  beautifully,  my  dear  child," 
said  Mrs.  Winter,  "our  real  language — well,  I  don't 
know  whether  you  can  speak  it  or  understand  it, 
either ;  and  there's  the  trouble — why,  Jo'nivan,  how 
long  have  you  been  walking  behind  us  ?" 

*  Great  Heavens !  dear  me  !— a  common  Russian  exclama 
tion. 


THE   FAIRPORT   ART   MUSEUM  73 

"Ever  so  long,"  answered  Johnny-Ivan  calmly; 
"but  mamma  says  I  mustn't  int'rupt.  Papa  says  I 
should  tell  you  there's  some  nice  tickings  up  stairs." 

"Now,  I  wonder,"  thought  Mrs.  Winter,  who  was 
an  astute  personage  and  did  not  share  the  almost 
universal  confidence  in  the  deafness  of  children  and 
one's  neighbors  in  street-cars.  "I  do  wonder  how 
much  of  her  ravings  that  poor  little  chap  heard ;  he 
wouldn't  understand  the  last  part ;  but  the  first  was 
plain  English." 

In  point  of  fact,  Johnny-Ivan  had  heard  every 
word,  but  the  futile  effort  to  comprehend  the  last 
sentences  had  made  him  doubt  his  own  interpreta 
tion  of  the  words  before.  Nevertheless,  he  was  to 
ponder  on  them  often;  and  they  were  to  have  a 
more  clinging  influence  on  his  future  than  even  Mrs. 
Winter  could  forebode. 


CHAPTER  V 

rA    MESSAGE   FROM    RUSSIA 

On  the  morning  after  his  misfortune  at  the  Art 
Exhibition,  Johnny-Ivan  was  racing  over  the  lawn, 
filled  with  an  exhilaration  compound  of  a  number 
of  pleasant  happenings.  For  one  thing  his  "aunty" 
had  come  on  a  visit  the  evening  before.  In  most 
families  there  is  one  aunty  and  several  aunts.  Some 
times,  when  there  is  a  single  aunt,  she  is  not  an 
aunty.  Sometimes,  also,  the  aunty  to  one  child  in  a 
family  is  merely  Aunt  Helen  or  Anna  to  another. 
The  aunty  may  be  designated  as  the  reigning  aunt, 
the  head  of  the  order.  Johnny-Ivan  possessed  sev 
eral  aunts,  his  Aunt  Wanda,  his  Aunt  Marie,  his 
Aunt  Clara,  and  he  was  decorously  fond  of  them  all ; 
but  only  Mrs.  Burney,  his  father's  sister,  was 
aunty,  and  aunty  would  be  here  for  two  weeks. 
She  had  brought  him  candy,  a  five-dollar  gold  piece 
and  a  wonderful  fireman's  suit  with  helmet  and 
breastplate,  in  which  he  intended  presently  to  daz 
zle  Peggy.  It  was  another  delightful  thing  that 
Peggy  was  coming  over  for  the  whole  day.  Then, 
under  all,  wasn't  it  spring  with  the  feel  of  spring  in 
the  air,  if  not  yet  the  tints  of  spring  in  the  trees! 
Altogether,  Johnny-Ivan  sang  and  shouted  for  the 
joy  of  living  that  morning. 

74 


A   MESSAGE   FROM   RUSSIA  75 

By  consequence  he  smiled  with  great  friendliness 
at  a  small,  well-freckled  boy,  whom  he  encountered 
crossing  the  lawn.  This  boy  carried  a  tin  pail.  It 
was  a  battered  pail  of  the  haggard  gray  which  an 
cient  tin  will  acquire,  and  it  was  mended  with  a 
string. 

"Say,"  hailed  Johnny-Ivan,  "who'd  you  want?" 

The  boy  dug  his  bare  heel  into  the  soft  turf  and 
scowled  at  his  little  questioner.  Instantly  Johnny 
recognized  him.  It  was  the  boy  to  whom  he  had 
given  his  knife,  the  boy  who  had  jeered  at  him  in 
the  Art  Gallery. 

"Hello !"  cried  Johnny,  in  a  different  tone. 

"Didn't  you  git  a  lickin',  yestiddy?"  said  the  boy. 

He  regarded  this  sally  as  a  masterpiece  of  irony; 
and  his  sullen  face  relaxed. 

Johnny-Ivan  laughed.  "Course  not!" — he  tossed 
his  head  easily — "papa  paid  'em.  I  told  all  about  it. 
I  wasn't  going  to  have  you  blamed."  Johnny-Ivan 
was  not  above  bragging  about  his  virtue;  in  fact, 
the  right  to  brag  is  one  of  the  precious  rewards  of 
virtue  to  his  age. 

"I  run  away;  they  couldn't  have  cotched  me," 
said  the  boy. 

"You  couldn't  run'd  away  from  the  p'liceman! 
He'd  catched  you." 

"Naw,  he  wouldn't.  I  kin  beat  the  engine.  Say, 
didn't  your  pa  lick  you  when  you  got  home?" 

"Naw," — Johnny-Ivan  essayed  an  imitation,  not 
in  irony  but  in  admiration  of  the  other  boy's  accent 
— "my  papa  never  licked  me  in  my  life." 

The  boy  eyed  him  a  minute,  hammering  a  bare 
heel  into  the  soft  sod ;  his  cynical  air  melted.  "Say," 


76  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

said  he,  "it  must  be  bully  to  have  a  sure  'nuff  pa 
like  that !" 

"Haven't  you  got  any  papa?"  said  Johnny,  his 
eyes  wide. 

"Naw,  he's  dead.  I  just  got  a  step.  My  real 
father,  he  was  a  awful  nice  man.  On  the  river.  This 
one  he  ain't  nothing  jes  loafs  an'  bums  an'  licks  us !" 

"Does  he  lick  you?" 

"Me  an'  ma,  too.  /  don't  mind.  But  I'm  goin'  to 
kill  him  fur  lickin'  ma,  sometime." 

Johnny-Ivan  stared  at  the  boy's  flushing  cheeks 
and  knitted  brow ;  and  his  own  cheek  reddened. 

"I  would,"  said  he  firmly;  "that's  what  Kaler'd 
do.  You  could  stick  him  with  my  knife.  It's  awful 
sharp." 

The  other  did  not  receive  this  fiery  counsel  with 
enthusiasm.  Often,  the  onlooker  is  of  more  desper 
ate  mood  than  the  actor. 

"He'd  git  the  knife  away  and  then  he'd  murder 
me  sure'n  shootin',"  he  muttered.  "Lots  of  times,  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  run  away." 

"Why  don't  you?" 

"Only  there's  ma.  He's  so  mean  he'd  take  it  out 
on  her.  Oncet  he  was  lickin'  her  with  a  hard  wood 
stick,  and  I  jumped  on  him  and  bit  him." 

"Oh  my!"  gasped  Johnny-Ivan,  "what'd  he  do?" 

"He  bust  my  head  open,"  answered  the  boy  with 
somber  pride,  "and  I  didn't  know  nothin'.  They 
called  the  police  on  us,  that  time,  and  he  got  thirty 
days.  We'd  a  reel  good  time  w'ile  he  was  in  jail; 
we  painted  the  kitchen.  Ma  kep'  every  cent  she  got 
from  scrubbing.  But  he  come  back ;  and  it  was  bad's 


A   MESSAGE   FROM   RUSSIA  77 

"Why  don't  you  and  your  mother  both  run  off?" 
asked  Johnny. 

"It  takes  money,"  answered  the  boy;  "ma,  she 
did  save  a  little  money,  but  she  had  to  spend  it  all 
buryin'  baby." 

"Did  your  baby  die?" 

"Dipthery?  Yes.  He  was  mean  to  her  when  she 
was  sick  'cause  she  cried.  Ma  said  she'd  never  for 
give  him.  I  guess  she'd  run  fast  'nuff  if  we'd  got 
the  price." 

Johnny  was  breathing  quickly.  Here  was  some 
thing  like  the  stories.  "I  got  some  money,"  he  cried, 
"my  aunty  gave  me  a  five-dollar  gold  piece  and  I 
got  it  here — in  my  pocket — see !" 

His  hand  had  dived  into  his  pocket  and  was  out 
again  with  the  coin  glittering  in  the  palm.  He 
pressed  it  upon  the  astonished  lad.  "You  take  it, 
and  run  quick!"  he  cried;  "somebody's  calling  me. 
Mind  you  run!" 

Not  pausing  for  an  answer,  he  sped  like  a  deer 
back  to  the  lawn  and  his  father. 

The  freckled  boy,  after  a  second,  put  the  coin  in 
side  his  cheek  and  ran  as  swiftly  in  the  opposite  di 
rection. 

Johnny-Ivan's  head  was  so  full  of  the  interview 
that  he  almost  bumped  into  a  man,  at  that  moment 
mounting  the  steps  where  Mr.  Winslow  awaited  his 
son. 

The  man  wore  a  red  shirt.  He  had  thick  black 
hair.  Johnny-Ivan  shied  just  in  time;  and,  as  he 
sprang  aside,  he  was  aware  of  a  paper  waving  in  a 
dirty  hand.  He  recognized  Serge  Vassilovitch. 
Serge  it  was,  revealed  rather  than  disguised  by 


78  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

liquor,  swinging  the  open  sheet  and  .bellowing  aloud  : 
"Where  is  the  barina?  Where  is  Olga  Ivanovna?" 

Winslow,  who  had  a  copy  of  the  same  paper  in 
his  hand  and  whose  face  was  unusually  stern,  took 
two  strides  toward  the  Russian.  In  the  hall  behind 
appeared  Hilma  and  Abbie,  the  new  waitress. 

"What  do  you  want  at  the  front  door?"  demanded 
Winslow,  the  blood  mounting  to  his  brow.  No  one 
of  the  servants  had  ever  seen  him  in  a  passion  be 
fore;  James,  the  gardener,  Michael,  Tim,  Hilma, 
Abbie,  the  waitress,  all  stared  at  him;  but  Serge 
stood  his  ground  and  shrieked  in  Russian  that  the 
tyrant  was  removed ! 

"Get  out  of  these  grounds,  you  murderer  and  tool 
of  murderers !"  bawled  Josiah.  "If  I  see  your  dirty 
face  here  again  I'll  set  the  dogs  on  you !" 

Serge,  whose  legs  had  begun  to  wabble,  swung 
his  arms  and  cursed  in  thick  but  voluble  Russian. 
"Get  out  of  here !"  Winslow  repeated.  His  tone  had 
sunk ;  he  thrust  his  hand  into  the  bosom  of  his  coat ; 
something  menacing  in  his  gesture  and  more  menac 
ing  in  his  eye  pierced  Serge's  thick  wits:  he  sub 
mitted  to  Michael,  who  whispered  in  his  ear  and 
led  him  away.  The  audience  was  dazed.  Tim, 
alone,  ventured  comment. 

"Is  it  true  thim  nahilists  have  blowed  the  legs  aff 
the  poor  sezar  of  Rooshy?"  said  he. 

The  reply  came  through  Winslow's  set  teeth. 
"That  is  just  exactly  what  the  damn  idiotic  assassins 
have  done;  and,  if  they  only  knew  it,  kept  Russia 
out  of  a  constitution  for  a  generation,  damn  them ! 
I'd  like  to  see  the  whole  batch  swing!"  The  last 
word  might  not  have  been  the  last,  had  not  Wins- 


A   MESSAGE   FROM   RUSSIA 


79 


low  seen  his  sister  and  his  wife  coming  down  the 
stairway,  and  tried  to  put  on  his  usual  composed  in 
difference  of  manner.  But  there  remained  the  in 
definable  throb  of  emotion  in  the  air;  and  Mrs. 
Burney  knew  her  brother. 

"What  has  happened,  Si?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
tone. 

"The  nihilists  have  assassinated  the  czar/'  said 
Josiah;  "good  morning,  Olga,  would  you  like  the 
Gazette?"  As  he  spoke  he  offered  the  paper  to  his 
wife.  She  turned  pale. 

"What  madness!"  she  muttered.  "Oh,  my  poor 
country !" 

"I  hope  now,  Olga,"  said  he  gravely,  "we  have 
seen  the  last  of  Serge  and  of  some  others.  You  per 
ceive  what  such  methods  come  to." 

She  made  him  no  answer.  In  silence  they  walked 
together  through  the  wide  hall  into  the  dining-room, 
Johnny-Ivan  following  unnoticed,  while  their  ser 
vants  exchanged  significant  glances.  The  breakfast 
passed  off  in  apparent  amity,  mostly  promoted  by 
Mrs.  Burney,  who  was  interested  in  the  Art  Exhi 
bition,  the  weather,  the  Winslow  summer  plans, 
everything  in  sight  except  Russia.  Josiah  read  the 
paper  as  he  ate,  hurling  horrid  details  of  the  tragedy 
at  the  others  between  mouth  fills,  oblivious  of 
Johnny's  glowing  eyes  or  Mrs.  Burney's  pacific  di 
versions.  Olga  smiled  and  patted  her  sister-in-law's 
hand ;  not  a  word  of  sympathy  or  argument  did  she 
offer  her  husband.  But  Johnny-Ivan's  excitement 
grew;  it  pulled  him  out  of  his  chair  and  on  to  his 
father's  knee,  where  he  could  see  the  ghastly  head 
lines  for  himself. 


80  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

"Well,  Johnny,  let  us  men  go  off  with  the  news 
paper,"  proposed  his  father,  "and  leave  mamma  and 
aunty  to  talk  of  the  show." 

Olga  found  them  together,  half  an  hour  later. 
Johnny  was  talking;  she  heard  a  single  sentence. 
"No,  papa,  they're  not  bad  cruel  men.  I  guess  the 
czar  must  have  sent  their  friends  to  Siberia  and  that 
was  the  trouble." 

Olga  could  not  catch  the  answer  in  her  husband's 
deeper  tones,  but  she  caught  every  word  of  the 
child's  sweet,  high  pipe. 

"Yes,  papa.  I'm  awful  sorry  for  the  poor  czar,  if 
he  was  bad !" 

She  did  not  listen  further ;  she  went  back  to  the 
house,  to  her  own  little  parlor,  where  she  waited  for 
her  boy.  Her  first  horror  was  breaking  under  the  on 
set  of  her  instinct  to  defend  her  party  and  her 
friends.  She  resented  this  attack  on  a  child's  heart, 
forgetting  that  she  had  attacked  it,  herself. 

When  the  little  fellow  came,  she  smoothed  his 
dark  curls,  fondly  murmuring  soft  Russian  diminu 
tives  in  his  ear,  and  it  was  as  if  by  accident  she 
asked  finally :  "What  was  papa  telling  you  ?" 

Johnny-Ivan  blushed.  "I  guess  I  can't  tell,"  said 
he.  His  head  was  bent,  so  he  did  not  see  her  cold 
smile  as  she  answered : 

"Not  if  you  promised  not.  But  you  didn't  tell  all 
those  secrets  we  have,  either  ?" 

"Not  one,  maman,  not  one;  I  shutted  my  mouf 
tight,  and  I  didn't  even  breathe."  Here  he  suited  the 
action  to  the  word. 

She  smiled  again.  "He  is  mine,"  she  was  think 
ing,  "most  of  all  he  is  mine !" 


A   MESSAGE   FROM   RUSSIA  81 

However,  the  father  had  his  own  grounds  for  en 
couragement.  That  afternoon  he  strolled  down  to 
a  corner  of  his  garden  where  the  asparagus  bed  in 
summer  would  make  a  mass  of  graceful  greenery; 
now  it  was  only  a  square  of  freshly  turned  black 
earth.  On  the  edge  a  spot  of  clear  turf  was  shaded 
by  a  tall  and  richly  spreading  elm  which  had  been 
planted  by  Atherton's  own  hands;  and  Atherton 
himself  had  shaped  the  rustic  seat  beneath  its  green 
ery.  To  one  side,  a  cluster  of  flowering  almond 
trees  and  Paris  japonicas  used  to  flower  in  masses 
of  crimson  and  pink  for  the  April  sun.  That  March 
day  no  bright  color  tinted  the  shrubs ;  but  the  grass 
was  greening,  the  tree  twigs  were  faintly  red  and 
an  odor  of  earth  and  springtime  exhaled  from  the 
newly  turned  clods.  The  place  was  the  children's 
favorite  playground;  and  now  Peggy  and  Johnny 
were  there,  playing  a  game  which  so  deeply  engaged 
them  that  Winslow  captured  the  seat  behind  the 
japonicas,  unobserved.  He  watched  them,  at  once 
aware  this  was  a  game  out  of  the  common.  No  or 
dinary  play  could  demand  such  high  toilets. 

Peggy  was  decked  in  a  gold  embroidered  robe 
(erstwhile  a  piano  cover)  ;  the  white  silk  handker 
chief  crowning  her  bright  tresses  was  gathered  into 
folds  by  Mrs.  Winslow's  opal  and  diamond  brooch 
and  further  enriched  by  the  chandelier  chains,  and 
a  pompon  from  a  small  red  feather  duster.  She 
bore  a  wand  of  white  wreathed  with  yellow  ribbon ; 
her  mien  was  of  solemnest  grandeur.  Johnny  was 
no  less  resplendent,  wearing  his  fireman's  helmet,  a 
Roman  sash  of  his  mother's  and  a  splendid  cuirass 
made  of  two  tin  steamer  covers  attached  to  his  per- 


82  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

son  and  each  other  by  gold  and  white  curtain  cords. 
He  brandished  the  Winslow  sword  and  he  was  pale 
with  emotion.  "Let  the  Russian  army  approach  the 
bier!"  commanded  Peggy,  waving  her  wand.  The 
Russian  army  stiffened  and  stalked  up  to  a  wheel 
barrow  covered  with  an  American  flag,  beneath 
which  could  plainly  be  discerned  the  outlines  of  a 
doll. 

"I'm  sorry  we  didn't  have  a  Russian  flag,"  re 
gretted  the  army  as  it  surveyed  the  wheelbarrow. 

"Well,  you-all  wouldn't  take  my  Confederit  flag," 
retorted  the  mistress  of  ceremonies;  "it's  a  flag, 
that's  the  main  thing."  She  elevated  her  tones: 
"Let  the  Russian  nobility  and  clergy  approach !"  In 
response,  she  moved  with  dignity  to  the  other  side. 

"Now  the  Royal  Family!"  She  fell  back  to  draw 
out  a  large  handkerchief  (one  of  Winslow's  own) 
and  bury  her  face  in  its  folds  while  she  tottered  up 
to  the  bier.  The  army  was  visibly  affected.  Its  agi 
tation,  in  fact,  was  so  great  that  it  only  opened  its 
mouth  at  the  next  call :  "Ambassadahs  and  minis- 
tahs  of  the  penitenchary !"  Suddenly  came  the  low 
but  stern  command :  ''Gimme  my  wreath !"  whereat 
the  army  scrambled  under  the  wheelbarrow  and 
emerged  with  a  wreath  of  artificial  roses,  much 
past  their  bloom,  apologizing,  "It  dropped  off  the 
wheelbarrow." 

"It  ain't  a  barrah,  it's  a  bcah!"  said  Peggy,  with 
the  same  hushed  severity,  then  aloud:  "Ambassa 
dahs,  you-all  approach!  Down  in  front!  the  am- 
bassadahs  are  approachin' !" 

Majestically,  the  ambassadors  and  ministers  plen 
ipotentiary  strode  to  the  bier.  Their  gorgeous  head 


A   MESSAGE   FROM   RUSSIA  83 

laid  the  wreath  on  the  flag ;  his  tones  swelled  sono 
rously :  "We  bring  this  votive  wreath  in  token  of 
the  grief  and  condolence  of  all  nations.  The  de 
ceased-was  a  good  and  great  man  and  it  is  an  awful 
shame  how  he  was  killed,  for  he  was  basely  mur 
dered  by  cruel  villins  and  traitahs." 

The  army  fidgeted  in  an  unmartial  manner. 
"You're  so  many  things"  it  complained;  "and  I 
ain't  nothing  but  the  army." 

"Well,  you  didn't  want  to  p'nounce  the  funeral 
'rashun,  you  wouldn't  call  the  nihilists  'miff 


names — " 


"But  I  let  you  behead  the  worst  one — " 

"You  wouldn't  let  me  behead  'em  all.  They'd 
ought  to  be." 

"Well,  one's  enough,  'cause  he's  the  worst  one; 
the  others  just  did  it  to  please  him.  Besides" — there 
was  triumph  in  the  little  boy's  tone;  he  felt  that  he 
could  justify  his  reprehensible  softness  of  heart — 
"besides,  we'd  lose  the  dolls !" 

"Whose  dolls  are  they?"  was  the  haughty  and 
irrefutable  reply. 

"I  know  they're  yours,  but  don't  you  hate  to  cut 
your  dolls' heads  off?" 

"Not  when  it's  right  and  your  juty,"  declaimed 
Peggy  with  an  heroic  air.  She  waved  her  hand  at 
the  bier.  "That's  Annabel  Lee,"  said  she,  "turned 
into  a  man ;  and  he's  got  Annabel's  stockings  on — 
her  w'ite  silk  stockings." 

"Oh,  Peggy!"  cried  Johnny-Ivan,  appalled  at  this 
Spartan  sacrifice,  "your  best  doll!"  But  instantly 
his  brow  cleared.  "You — we  could  wwbury  him  after 
a  while,  you  know !"  he  suggested. 


84  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

"No/5  said  Peggy  firmly,  "I  ain't  no  Injun 
gifter!" 

"But— I  don't  think  it's  fair  to  Annabel  Lee/' 
ventured  Johnny. 

Unluckily,  at  this  interesting  turn  of  the  drama,  a 
powerful  sneeze  caught  and  strangled  the  spectator ; 
he  fought  it  in  vain;  it  exploded  with  a  prodigious 
reverberation.  Both  the  children  jumped;  nothing 
remained  for  the  eavesdropper  but  to  come  forward. 

"I'm  sorry  I  interrupted  your  game,"  he  said. 
"I'm  going  off  now,  and,  see  here,  little  girl,  I'd 
unbury  the  czar ;  I  think  he'd  like  it,  and  make  him 
over  into  Annabel  Lee." 

"Yes,  sah,  we  will,"  said  Peggy,  in  her  politest 
manner. 

Josiah  took  his  way  homeward  rather  slowly;  in 
truth  he  would  have  been  glad  to  see  the  play  out; 
he  was  curious  regarding  the  fate  of  the  condemned 
nihilist;  so  curious  that  he  questioned  Johnny-Ivan. 

"We  exercutid  him,"  replied  the  little  boy  solemn 
ly  ;  "he  paid  the  penalty  of  his  crime ;  .we  cutted  his 
head  off."  Johnny's  grandiloquence  was  always  art 
less;  it  came  from  simple  trust  in  the  language  of 
his  books ;  his  face  was  full  of  tragedy,  dashed  with 
pride. 

"Who  was  the  executioner  ?" 

"Peggy.  She  had  the  hatchet ;  and  she  dipped  the 
head  in  red  paint  and  held  it  up  and  hollered :  Thus 
perish  all  traitors.' ' 

"And  you  cried?" 

"No,  sir ;  I  didn't  even  shut  my  eyes ;  I  played  the 
Russian  hymn  on  the  comb,  'cause  I  was  the  band." 

"Can  you  play  a  tune  ?" 


A   MESSAGE   FROM   RUSSIA  85 

"Not  ezackly,  but  if  you  hold  your  mouf  close  to 
the  comb  and  sorter  sing  the  words  it  sounds  like  a 
tune.  Peggy  can  do  it  beautiful;  she  played  soon's 
she  got  done  waving  the  head." 

"So  you  had  a  very  exciting  time  and  enjoyed  it?" 

"I  guess  so,"  said  Johnny-Ivan;  but  there  was 
some  doubt  in  his  tone. 

"Poor  little  chap !"  thought  Winslow,  "you  need 
an  almighty  lot  of  hardening.  How  am  I  going  to 
give  it  to  you?" 

Not  seeing  his  path  clear,  he  presented  Johnny 
with  a  silver  quarter  and  told  him  never  to  borrow 
the  ancestral  sword  again. 

"Mamma  let  me  have  it,"  said  Johnny. 

"And  let  Peggy  have  the  brooch,  too,  I  dare  say." 

"Yes,  sir.  Peggy  took  awful  good  care  of  it.  We 
gave  it  right  back." 

"Did  mamma  know  what  it  was  for?" 

"No,  sir.  I  thought  Peggy  would  tell  her  what 
for,  but  she  didn't;  she  just  said  for  a  game,  and 
mamma  said,  'Cela  m'est  egal,  cherie!'  So  she  took 
it." 

It  was  rather  surprising,  although  very  delightful 
to  have  his  father,  of  whose  mood  in  regard  to  the 
disposal  of  portable  property  Johnny-Ivan  was  never 
quite  secure,  take  these  revelations  with  nothing 
harsher  than  his  odd  widening  of  his  lips,  and  im 
mediately  produce  another  quarter  for  Peggy. 

"I  think,  Johnny,"  said  Josiah  Winslow,  "when 
you  grow  up,  you'd  better  marry  Peggy.  She'll  be  a 
help  to  you  in  a  good  many  ways." 

"Oh,  I'm  going  to"  said  Johnny-Ivan. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AS    GALLEY    SLAVES,    NOT    COMRADES 

The  great  trouble  with  Peggy  was  Girls!  Girls 
were  always  tagging  after  Peggy.  One  warm  after 
noon  two  of  the  most  obnoxious  of  the  tribe  came 
to  Hazelhurst  and  they  all  went  off  together  and  had 
"sekruts."  Johnny-Ivan  was  told  to  go  find  out 
whether  Milly,  Mrs.  Winter's  cook,  would  open  her 
heart  to  the  extent  of  freshly-baked  ginger-snaps 
and  root  beer.  He  accomplished  his  mission,  one  not 
to  his  liking,  for  Milly  always  embraced  him  and 
gave  him  a  perspiring  kiss  of  approbation  for  being 
such  a  "sweet,  pretty  little  boy" — Johnny,  himself, 
all  the  while,  intent  on  conspiracies  and  combats  and 
a  blood-stained  career  of  reformation  of  the  world — 
and  then,  when  he  had  honorably  repaid  the  future 
beneficence  by  reciting  Barbara  Frictchie, — after  all 
this  strenuous  self-sacrifice,  the  perfidious  Girls  had 
run  away !  And  he  couldn't  find  them.  He  plodded 
homeward,  wanting  very  much  to  cry,  but  he  knew 
that  boys  didn't  cry;  so  he  whistled  instead,  and, 
in  a  little  space,  became  so  interested,  planning  a 
"sekrut"  of  his  own  about  the  ginger-snaps,  that 
he  grew  quite  cheerful.  By  the  time  he  reached  his 
favorite  little  crotch  of  shrubs  on  the  lawn,  just  be 
low  the  porch,  he  was  laughing.  The  weeks  had 

86 


AS   GALLEY    SLAVES,   NOT   COMRADES        87 

crept  on  into  late  April.  The  tulips  were  up  and 
the  yellow  jonquils  gilded  the  flower  beds  on  the 
lawn  which  James  had  mowed  smooth  with  the 
new  lawn-mower  until  it  was  like  green  velvet, 
athwart  which  the  sun  sent  shafts  of  emerald  blaze. 
The  trees,  in  their  lovely  faint  etching  which  was 
not  yet  foliage,  or  their  red  softness  of  bough  and 
twig  presaging  the  leafing,  rose  all  along  the  slopes 
below  the  terraces  where  the  house  stood,  and  lower 
still,  the  little  city  with  its  shining  church  spires, 
its  thin  red  blocks  and  its  multitude  of  softly  gray 
ing  house-roofs,  spread  along  the  shining  river. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Johnny-Ivan  looked 
on  a  landscape  with  a  definite  sense  that  it  gave  him 
pleasure.  Even  the  Patch  was  glorified  by  the  morn 
ing  and  the  spring.  Its  ungracious  outlines  melted 
into  formless,  reticent  blurs  of  brown  and  gray;  its 
card-house  roofs  were  broken  by  the  trees ;  and 
there  were  great  splashes  of  white  and  pink  amid 
the  bronzes  of  cottonwood  and  crab-apple  trees. 

Johnny-Ivan  nestled  in  his  corner,  very  warm  and 
tired  with  running.  He  felt  rather  than  heard  the 
twitter  of  the  robins  and  the  shrill  call  of  the  blue 
jay  on  the  capital  of  the  column ;  his  eyelids  dropped 
and  immediately  he  dozed. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  with  an  indescribable  sen 
sation  of  shock  and  discomfort.  Two  people  were 
talking  on  the  piazza.  They  could  not  see  him ;  but 
he  could  see  them,  and  he  could  hear  them  distinct 
ly.  They  were  his  father  and  mother — and  they 
were  quarreling!  Now,  whatever  their  alienation, 
the  father  and  mother  of  Johnny  had  never  permit 
ted  him  to  witness  their  disputes.  He  felt  his  whole 


88  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

little  world  reel  about  him  when  the  two  people 
who  could  do  no  wrong  lashed  each  other  with  bit 
ter  voices. 

What  they  said  was  unintelligible  to  him,  and 
often  afterward  as  he  rehearsed  the  scene  and 
groped  through  his  memory  for  the  dimly  recalled 
sentences,  he  never  could  entirely  comprehend  them. 
But  his  sickness  of  heart  was  as  real  as  if  he  under 
stood. 

Winslow  was  walking  up  and  down  the  piazza, 
smoking.  Mrs.  Winslow  sat  in  an  easy  chair,  nor 
did  she  ever  rise.  Her  voice  kept  its  musical,  foreign 
inflections  and  never  but  once  was  it  ruffled. 

The  first  words  which  broke  into  her  son's  com 
prehension  were:  "If  you  are  so  dissatisfied  with 
me  and  I  give  you  so  much  sorrow,  why  not  let  me 
go  away?  I  am  willing  to  go ;  I  want  to  go." 

"You  want  to  go  ?"  Winslow's  heavy  black  brows 
were  knit. 

She  drew  a  long  shuddering  breath.  "I  can't  bear 
it  any  longer,"  she  said;  "if  I  don't  go  I  shall  kill 
myself.  Take  your  choice." 

"I  guess  not,"  said  he  (while  Johnny's  heart  con 
tracted  with  terror)  ;  "what  are  you  driving  at, 
Olga?  Try  to  talk  plain  sense,  for  once;  I've  long 
since  ceased  to  hope  you  would  ever  care  for  me 
and  be  a  wife  to  me  as  other  men's  wives  are.  I 
don't  even  ask  you  to  keep  the  house  decent;  I  shut 
my  teeth  and  let  the  girls  throw  the  sweepings  out  of 
the  window,  and  when  they  break  all  the  cut  glass 
I  get  some  pressed  glass  that  won't  break  so  easy. 
I  don't  bother  you.  I  don't  expect  you  even  to  return 
the  calls  my  friends  have  made  you,  or  to  see  them 


AS   GALLEY   SLAVES,   NOT   COMRADES        89 

when  they  take  the  trouble  to  come  here.  I  don't 
see  that  you  are  suffering,  particularly.  You  have 
your  own  rooms,  your  own  allowance  to  fool  away 
on  damn  scoundrels,  who  make  all  the  trouble  they 
can  for  me.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  are  civil  to  me  be 
fore  Johnny  and  that  you  don't  disgrace  me  openly. 
Anything  else  you  want  I'm  willing  to  try  to 
meet—" 

"Will  you  let  me  go  away — to  France,  to  Switzer 
land?" 

"That  would  be  nonsense;  you'd  find  yourself 
mixed  up  with  your  villainous  crowd  of  assassins. 
I  will  go  with  you,  next  fall — " 

She  began  to  laugh,  very  softly.  "Thanks,  but — 
we  should  be  too  much  together  for  the  comfort  of 
either  of  us.  Josiah,  let  me  go,  go  entirely.  The  play 
is  played  out;  we  haven't  a  thought  in  common — " 
"That  may  be,  but  we  have  a  child.  There's 
Johnny." 

"I  have  borne  it  so  long  because  of  Ivan.  I  can't 
bear  it  any  longer.  Do  you  guess,  you  Americans, 
how  appalling  is  your  life?  I  thought  this  was  a 
land  where  all  our  poor  Russian  dreams,  that  we  are 
so  willing  to  die  for,  came  true.  And — you  are  not 
so  free — really — as  we.  I  weary  myself  to  death  of 
this  odious  bourgeoisie,  this  intolerable,  narrow  ex 
istence  which  is  all  a  fight  for  money — crushing, 
crowding,  strangling  each  other.  These  women, 
your  friends,  they  think  of  nothing  but  their  toilets 
and  their  houses  and  oppressing  their  poor  servants 
— it  gets  on  my  nerves  until  I  want  to  scream !  And 
you,  too !  You  do  not  understand — anything !  What 
is  life  to  me,  is  folly,  madness  to  you.  Life  must 


9o  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

mean  something;  it  must  have  a  secret;  I  have 
sought  for  it  in  your  scheme  of  living  and  I  can 
not  find  it;  you  only  busy  yourself  with  the  husks 
of  life,  the  clothes,  the  houses,  the  power  your  money 
gives  you;  for  you,  that  is  all;  and  work,  struggle, 
the  conquering  and  trampling  on  weaker  creatures, 
that  gives  you  your  happiness.  To  me  such  triumph 
is  intolerable.  It  is  against  my  nature.  Why  should 
we  go  on,  not  comrades,  only  galley  slaves?  Oh, 
Josiah,  let  me  go !" 

Winslow  drove  his  hands  deeper  into  his  pockets 
and  his  mouth  hardened.  The  breathless  little  crea 
ture,  watching,  was  terror-stricken;  he  began  to 
crawl  out,  with  a  vague  notion  of  protecting  his 
mother.  Only  his  father  did  not  move;  he  couldn't 
hurt  her  unless  he  moved. 

"You're  polite  to  ask  me.  I  wonder  you  haven't 
bolted,"  said  he,  not  even  looking  at  her. 

"But  there  was  Vanya,"  she  said.  "I  couldn't  go 
without  Vanya."  Johnny-Ivan  caught  his  breath. 

His  father  answered  in  a  harsh  tone :  "You  cer 
tainly  won't  go  with  him.  I  mean  to  do  the  fair 
thing  by  you,  Olga;  if  I've  made  mistakes,  they 
were  mistakes,  not  intentional  cruelty.  It  isn't  fair 
to  me  to  take  Johnny  away  from  me,  but  let  that  go ; 
the  main  point  is,  it  isn't  fair  to  Johnny,  either ;  you 
don't  know  how  to  bring  up  a  child  properly.  I'm 
not  willing  to  let  you  have  him." 

In  a  tumult  of  feeling,  Johnny  beheld  his  mother 
spring  to  her  feet,  flinging  her  beautiful  arms  up 
ward,  her  cheeks  afire,  her  calm  voice  breaking. 
The  anguished  sweetness  of  it  wrung  his  heart,  as 
she  cried :  "But  I  am  his  mother !  And  I  love  him 


AS   GALLEY    SLAVES,   NOT   COMRADES        91 

— ah,  mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu,  how  I  love  him,  my 
golden  one!  But  you  don't  understand  that.  Un 
derstand  this,  then :  I  will  have  him !" 

"Stay  here,  like  a  decent  woman,  and  have  him, 
then,"  scoffed  Winslow.  "Do  try  to  see  things  as 
they  are,  Olga.  You're  not  trampled  on, — you  are  a 
very  much  indulged  woman.  You  have  a  handsome 
house  that  you  could  make  handsomer  if  you  would 
only  buy  things  and  see  that  your  maids  dusted 
them.  You  may  be  tired  of  your  husband,  but  he 
doesn't  ask  any  more  of  you  than  your  coachman 
does.  You've  got  a  nice  little  chap  for  a  son  that  you 
aren't  tired  of — yet." 

"Do  you  think  I  ever  shall  tire  of  him  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  You  soulful,  questioning-every- 
thing  sort  of  folks  do  get  tired  of  everything  in  the 
long  run.  Never  mind;  I  only  want  to  say  that  I 
shan't  under  any  circumstances  let  you  take  Johnny 
away.  I  .think,  myself,  he'd  better  go  off  somewhere 
to  school — " 

"Josiah!   That  little  child!" 

"He's  little,  and  I  don't  want  to  send  him,  but  it 
might  be  best;  you  have  been  letting  him  see  that 
hound  of  a  Vassil — " 

"Why  are  you  so  bitter  against  that  poor  man? 
I  heard — I  don't  want  to  believe  it — that  you  set  the 
dogs  on  him  Thursday  night." 

"I  certainly  did.  He  was  skulking  about  the 
chicken-house,  and  I  set  Rube  on  him;  and  the  pa 
triot  ran.  I  think  Rube  got  one  bite  out  of  his  leg; 
at  least  he  got  some  of  his  trousers.  Oh,  he's  a  sweet 
nature's  nobleman !  I  changed  Rube  to  another  ken 
nel,  and  just  as  well.  I  found  a  chunk  of  meat  loaded 


92  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

with  strychnine  in  his  old  kennel  this  morning. 
Threw  it  in,  I  suppose,  and  ran.  And  last  week 
there  was  a  bundle  of  trash  soaked  in  kerosene  found 
— by  Tim,  not  Michael — in  the  stable.  You  have 
nice  friends,  Olga." 

"That  was  wrong.  That  was  cruel,  I  admit  it," 
said  Mrs.  Winslow — Johnny  thought  how  noble  she 
was;  and  his  instinctive  dislike  of  Serge  was 
strengthened — "but  he  had  provocation,  Josiah. 
Treat  a  man  like  a  brute  and  he  will  take  a  brute's 
revenge." 

Winslow  made  no  answer ;  he  had  turned  his  face 
in  the  direction  of  the  city  and  was  listening. 

"Fire  bells,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  there  goes  our 
whistle !  Olga," — he  turned  with  a  different  expres 
sion,  "we  can  finish  this  talk  some  other  time.  I'm 
a  little  anxious  about  that  fire.  It's  our  district.  I'm 
going  in  to  try  the  new  telephone.  Big  thing,  those 
telephones,  if  they  work  as  well  as  they  seem  likely  to 
do.  Last  week  I  should  have  had  to  send  a  man  to 
town ;  but  I  can  find  out  now  in  two  seconds." 

Mrs.  Winslow  did  not  turn  her  head ;  if  he  could 
dismiss  the  situation  so  cavalierly,  she  could  not; 
but  Johnny's  thoughts  were  diverted  as  if  a  hand 
had  swung  them  round;  for  the  quiet  air  was  sud 
denly  throbbing  with  a  confusion  of  bells  and  whis 
tles.  The  noise  had  spread  from  its  corner  of 
origin  into  all  quarters  of  the  city;  and  Johnny, 
looking  in  a  familiar  direction,  saw  a  thick  black 
column  of  smoke  puff  up  over  the  roofs. 

His  mother's  back  was  turned  to  him.  He  ran 
up  to  her  and  clung  to  her  soft  gray  skirts.  What 
ever  he  had  felt  was  swept  away,  for  the  moment, 


AS   GALLEY   SLAVES,   NOT    COMRADES        93 

by  a  new  and  overpowering  excitement.  Fire  is 
often  the  secret  terror  of  a  sensitive  child.  He  never 
talks  about  it,  because  sensitive  children  are  reticent 
to  the  point  of  sin;  but  it  is  his  constant,  darkling 
attendant.  Never  did  Johnny  hear  fire  bells  at  night 
that  he  didn't  sit  up  in  bed  with  his  heart  beating 
wildly,  listening  with  all  his  ears  until  he  could  be 
certain  that  it  wasn't  his  father's  factory ;  after  that, 
with  a  genuine  but  not  distressing  pity  for  the  poor 
people  who  were  burning  up,  he  would  go  to  sleep 
again.  Very  likely  he  would  say  his  artless  prayer : 
"O  God,  please  put  the  fire  out,  even  if  they  are  bad 
people,"  and  sleep  the  more  readily  for  this  shift 
ing  of  the  burden. 

Fire  by  daylight  wasn't  so  bad ;  and  Peggy  really 
liked  it,  she  said ;  and  he  did  like  to  go  to  a  fire  with 
her  and  Michael.  Once  they  helped  carry  things 
out ;  that  was  grand !  But,  of  course,  there  was  the 
suspense  until  the  fire  was  surely  not  papa's  factory. 

This  time — "O,  mamma,  it  looks  right  on  the 
street — papa's  street,"  he  whispered. 

"Why,  so  it  does,"  said  mamma.  But  she  didn't 
seem  in  the  least  frightened ;  she  even  smiled  a  little ; 
at  least  her  upper  lip  curled. 

"Listen!"  exclaimed  Johnny-Ivan,  "papa's  tele 
phoning." 

They  both  listened  and  both  heard.  "You  all 
right,  Hopkins?— Is  it  bad?— H'mn,  yes.  I'll  be 
down.  Shut  all  the  windows.  Turn  off  the  naphtha 
tanks !"  The  instrument  went  back  with  a  click  and 
the  bell  rang  dismissal,  for  the  first  telephones  were 
more  formal  and  leisurely, — one  did  not  have  one's 
signals  automatized  for  him. 


94  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

In  a  second  there  was  a  furious  clang  on  the  sta 
ble  bell. 

"Oh,  papa's  works  are  afire ;  they're  burning  up ! 
Oh,  mamma !  Oh,  mamma !"  screamed  Johnny-Ivan, 
his  panic  let  loose  for  once.  But  his  mother's  hand 
was  on  his  shoulder  soothing  him. 

"That's  not  being  a  brave  boy!"  she  said;  "be 
quiet,  Ivan,  or  I  shall  be  ashamed  of  my  son  of 
whom  I  used  to  be  so  proud." 

The  words  were  the  strongest  tonic  to  the  sensi 
tive  little  heart  on  which  they  fell.  Johnny-Ivan  bit 
a  sob  in  two  and  straightened  himself;  before  she 
guessed  his  intention  he  had  darted  across  the  lawn 
and  run  like  a  hare  around  the  house.  The  stable 
yard  was  all  motion  and  excitement.  Tim  was  buck 
ling  straps  on  one  side  of  the  horse,  Michael  on  the 
other,  and  his  father  was  already  seated  in  the  buggy 
gathering  up  the  reins. 

"Good  as  the  fire  department,  boys,"  praised 
Winslow  quietly ;  "let  her  go !  Michael,  get  the  gate 
open !" 

"Papa!  papa!  lemme  go,  too!"  shouted  Johnny- 
Ivan  ;  but  Winslow  shook  his  head. 

"No  place  for  boys,"  he  called.  Johnny-Ivan, 
wasting  no  time  in  entreaty,  which  would  be  lost  on 
the  air,  made  for  the  first  gate.  He  outstripped 
Michael  and  swung  it  back. 

"Please  let  me  go,  papa!"  he  shouted,  "to  hold 
the  horse!  I  don't  weigh  so  much  as  Michael. 
Please  take  me !" 

He  thought  his  father's  answer  didn't  come  quite 
so  quickly  as  before,  but  it  came :  "Can't  risk  you, 
son,  but  I'll  telephone  you  how  we  get  on !" 


AS   GALLEY    SLAVES,   NOT   COMRADES        95 

The  next  instant  there  was  dust  all  about  them, 
and  only  the  dark  green  wheels  twinkling  through. 
"He  might  have  let  me,"  thought  the  little  boy;  "it 
wasn't  a  bit  risky;  Romeo  wouldn't  run!"    He  felt 
mightily  aggrieved,  and  the  resentment  which  had 
been  rising  all  through  the  hearing  of  his  parents' 
dispute  burned  more  hotly.    Papa  wasn't  nice  to 
mamma,  and  he  wasn't  nice  to  him,  Johnny ;  he  was 
mean!    Yet  there  grew  a  gleam  of  comfort;  papa 
was    going   to    telephone   to   him   about   the    fire. 
Johnny-Ivan    stationed    himself   by   the   telephone. 
There    he    stayed    and   waited.'    He   waited    what 
seemed  to  him  a  long  time  before  the  bell  rang. 
It  was  hard  to  wait,  because  there  was  the  fire  to 
see  outside,  and  every  one  in  the  household,  as  well 
as  Mrs.  Winter,  Mrs.  Rutherford  and  Peggy,  had 
gathered  to   look.    He  could  hear  their  exclama 
tions:    "The  smoke's  awfully  black!"     ...     "I 
don't  think  it's  any  blacker!"     .     .     .     "But  it  w, 
mon  amie,  regarde!"     .     .     .     "Aw-w !  ain't  it  too 
bad!"     ...     "I  helige  verlden!"     .    .    .     "Look 
at    the    blaze!"     .     .     .     "There's    the    fire    sure 
enough.    What's  the  matter  with  the  department?" 
.     .     .     "Aw,  'tis  manny  a  good  man's  losin'  his 
job  this  day ;  an'  a  good  man  his  money !"     .     .     . 
"Mamma,  the  fire's  going  down !  It  is !  it  is !"    .    .    . 
"But  look  at  the  smoke!"     .     .     .     "Oh,  ain't  it 
too  bad!"     .     .     .     "How  it's  pouring  out!    Jist 
pouring!" 

Yet  Johnny,  although  every  nerve  was  tingling, 
clenching  his  tiny  fist  in  his  impatience,  stuck  to  his 
telephone,  even  when  Peggy's  clear  tones  clove  the 
din  outside.  "Oh,  Jo'nivan,  come  on  out !" 


96  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"I  can't,"  he  called  back;  "papa's  going  to  tele 
phone  me !" 

"But  you  can  hear  the  bell  out  here !" 

"I  know,  but  I  can't  keep  papa  waiting." 

As  he  stood — on  a  chair  to  obtain  a  better  reach 
of  the  instrument — he  could  hear  louder  sighs  and 
exclamations  from  the  maids  and  the  men.  The  fire 
must  be  gaining.  But  at  this  moment  the  bell  rang. 
"Yes,  papa,"  he  cried  before  he  got  the  receiver  to 
his  ear.  "Hello!  You,  Johnny?" — the  voice  came 
to  him  mixed  with  a  dozen  sounds,  dulled  into 
echoes,  shouts,  the  wash  of  water  and  the  roar  of  a 
crowd.  "Fire's  under  control.  Tell  mamma." 

"Hurrah !"  cried  Johnny,  "did  you — was  anybody 
hurted?"  But  no  answer  came,  and  Johnny-Ivan 
finally  replaced  the  black  horn  and  sauntered  out  on 
the  lawn,  feeling  himself  the  bearer  of  great  news. 
Straight  to  his  mother  he  went  with  it. 

"That's  nice,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Upon  my  word,"  cried  Mrs.  Winter,  "you  take 
these  excitements  coolly,  Olga.  I  don't  think  I,  my 
self,  take  on  much ;  but  you  are  a  Stoic !" 

The  Princess  Olga  sighed.  "There  are  worse 
things  than  fires  in  a  factory,  where  no  one  is  likely 
to  be  hurt,"  said  she. 

Meanwhile  the  other  minor  members  of  the  group 
were  disappearing  to  attend  to  their  vocations  or  to 
gossip  more  freely  together,  as  the  case  might  be. 
Johnny-Ivan  and  Peggy  departed  to  get  a  new  Oli 
ver  Optic  book,  which  had  just  been  given  to  Peggy. 
There  was  a  boy  in  that  book  who  wasn't  afraid  of 
anything  on  earth.  Yesterday  Johnny- Ivan  had  been 
keen  for  the  adventurous  Richard's  perils,  but  to- 


AS   GALLEY   SLAVES,   NOT   COMRADES        97 

day  his  imaginary  world  did  not  entice  him ;  he  was 
full  of  an  uneasy  excitement.  Moreover,  his 
thoughts  kept  harking  back  to  the  scene  of  the 
morning. 

"Peggy,"  he  said,  "do  grown-ups  ever  quarrel? 
I  mean  grown-ups  that  are  married." 

"Why,  of  co'se,  certainly,"  returned  the  worldly- 
wise  Peggy;  "I've  heard  mammy  and  Uncle  Dan', 
myself.  Mammy's  terrible  when  she's  r'arin'  and 
charging  she  called  Uncle  Dan  a  heap  of  bad 
names — " 

"Don't  she  love  him  any  more?" 

"Why,  cert'y  she  does;  she's  just  petted  on  him; 
she'd  bake  all  night  for  him.  But — why,  everybody 
gets  mad,  sometimes.  You  get  mad  with  me" 

"That's  so,"  Johnny-Ivan  agreed  with  a  long  sigh 
of  relief ;  he  turned  the  talk  on  to  the  fire. 

His  father  came  back  at  noon.  He  was  in  a 
strange  good  humor.  Johnny-Ivan  couldn't  under 
stand  his  laughter  and  jokes  at  the  table ;  he  was  too 
young  to  know  the  intoxication  of  struggle  and 
victory. 

"Those  firemen" — Winslow  talked  to  Johnny, 
rather  than  at  Mrs.  Winslow's  languid  politeness — 
"they  were  fooling  when  I  got  there — afraid  of  the 
naphtha;  they'd  a  notion  it  was  going  to  explode, 
although  Hopkins  turned  it  off,  and  it  wasn't  any 
more  danger  than  a  chicken!  Hopkins  and  I  took 
some  hose  into  the  shop,  ourselves,  and  our  own 
men  ran  right  after  us.  Luke  Darrell  was  there, 
happy's  a  boy  to  be  at  a  fire  again;  he  went,  too. 
Then  the  chief  got  his  head  at  last  and  got  a  line  into 
the  windows,  and  all  was  over  in  five  minutes." 


98  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

"You  did  it,  papa;  you,  yourself?"  cried  Johnny. 

"I  myself,"  laughed  Winslow,  "and  it  has  ruined 
one  good  suit  of  clothes,  or  I  miss  my  guess."  The 
words  were  accompanied  by  a  furtive  eye-flash  at 
his  wife's  languid  face.  Possibly  in  his  hot  mood 
of  excitement  he  fancied  that  she  would  realize,  at 
least,  that  her  husband  was  a  man,  even  rejoice  a 
little  that  he  should  have  saved  his  property ;  it  is  so 
hard  to  comprehend  how  what  moves  one's  own  be 
ing  profoundly  can  fall  on  another's  soul  as  result- 
less  as  firebrands  on  a  snowbank.  But  Mrs.  Wins- 
low  inclined  her  head  with  a  formal  courtesy  more 
chilling  than  indifference,  saying,  as  if  to  a 
stranger:  ill  hope  you  are  not  very  tired;"  and 
Winslow's  boyish  gaiety  fell  off  like  a  mask.  He 
smiled  again,  however,  at  Johnny's  cry:  "You're 
just  like  a  general,  papa,  leading  your  troops  into 
battle !" 

"Humph!  not  so  bad  as  that,  Johnny,  but  I  was 
certainly  under  fire.  And  that  reminds  me,  Olga," 
— this  time  the  smile  was  his  grim,  straight  line  of 
the  mouth — "I  know  how  the  fire  happened." 

"Was  it  an  indecendary  fire,  papa?"  inquired 
Johnny,  who  read  the  newspapers  and  never  hesi 
tated  to  charge  on  a  word  familiar  to  his  eyes, 
whether  his  ears  had  ever  heard  it  or  not. 

"Ce  n'est  pas  exactement  juste,  Vanya"  began 
Mrs.  Winslow  in  gentle  correction,  with  a  foreign 
er's  polite  seriousness;  she  always  made  any  sug 
gestions  of  reproof  in  French,  which  Johnny-Ivan 
spoke  as  fluently  as  English.  Winslow  grinned,  and 
Johnny  flushed. 

"Yes,  it  was,"  said  Winslow;  "our  old  friend, 


AS   GALLEY    SLAVES,   NOT    COMRADES        99 

Serge  Vassy,  was  the  incendiary.  The  tyrannical 
hand  of  the  law  has  already  fallen  upon  him.  He 
was  seen  going  into  the  lumber  room  with  some 
thing  under  his  arm.  And  they  found  the  wreck  of 
a  nice  bomb  there,  after  the  fire  was  out.  You  see, 
the  fire  didn't  quite  work  to  order.  Serge  hadn't 
counted  on  a  shift  of  wind ;  he  expected  the  whole 
shed  would  be  burned  and  his  pretty  plaything  with 
it,  but— it  wasn't.  I  guess  we've  got  a  clear  case." 

Now  at  last  he  had  roused  his  wife;  the  red 
rushed  into  Mrs.  Winslow's  cheeks.  She  did  not 
look  at  her  husband  as  she  said :  "Didn't  you  set  the 
dogs  on  the  man?  His  revenge  is  just  as  brutal/' 

"Well,  perhaps.  And  mine,  now,  will  not  be 
brutal,  but  effectual,  for  I  shall  have  Serge  sent  up 
for  ten  years,  anyhow ;  and  I  have  bought  the  Patch 
and  am  going  to  build  a  branch  factory  with  decent 
houses  for  the  people  working  there." 

"And  the  poor  creatures  on  the  place  now  ?" 
"They  will  have  to  skedaddle." 
"What  will  they  do?   Where  will  they  go?" 
"Be  a  nuisance  somewhere  else,  I  suppose.    Not 
under  our  eyes,  however." 

"I  don't  suppose  you  care.  You  would  get  the 
police  and  drag  out  their  poor  bits  of  furniture  and 
beds  and  the  little  children  and  old  people — " 

"They  won't  need  dragging.  They'll  go  and 
poison  some  other  place.  It's  a  pity  they  can't  be 
dumped  in  the  river,  the  whole  pestilential,  cut 
throat  outfit.  Johnny,  what  do  you  think  about 
Serge?  Shall  we  have  Peggy  chop  off  his  head,  by 
proxy?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Johnny,  in  a  singularly  subdued 


ioo  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

tone;  "but  I  think  he's  wicked;  he  ought  to  go  to 
prison." 

"Quite  right.  He  will,  too.  It's  almost  worth  the 
fire  to  get  that  damned — that  assassin  out  of  the 
way.  Well,  I  guess,  now  I've  had  a  bath  and  clean 
clothes  and  something  to  eat,  I'll  be  getting  back." 

He  rumpled  Johnny-Ivan's  hair  in  passing,  and 
hurried  out,  quite  unconscious  of  the  effect  of  his 
last  news  about  the  Patch. 

"Mamma,  what  does  papa  mean?"  said  Johnny- 
Ivan. 

"He  meant,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow  slowly,  "that  he 
has  bought  all  those  poor  people's  homes  and  he  will 
turn  them  out." 

"But — maybe  they  want  to  go,  mamma!"  John 
ny-Ivan  was  trying  to  defend  his  father,  who  had 
been  so  brave  at  the  fire,  but  he  had  a  sickening  light 
on  the  situation  coming  from  a  never- forgotten 
picture  of  furniture  piled  on  the  street,  a  shrieking 
woman  and  weeping  children. 

"Would  you  want  to  go  out  with  all  you  have  in 
the  world  and  no  place  to  put  it?" 

"Can't  they  rent  some  nicer  place?  The  houses 
are  awfully  tumbly  and  dirty,  mamma,  for  a  fact. 
Some  of  them  don't  have  any  paper,  but  only  just 
newspapers.  Can't  they  rent  some  of  the  nice  houses 
papa's  going  to  build?" 

"They  haven't  any  money.  Papa' 11  charge 
money !" 

"But  not  if  he  knowed  for  sure  they  didn't  have 
any  money." 

Mrs.  Winslow's  lip  curled ;  she  looked  as  she  had 
looked  that  morning. 


AS   GALLEY    SLAVES,    NOT    COMRADES       101 

"Yes,  Ivan,  papa  never  lets  poor  people  have 
things  for  nothing.  And  he  is  angry  at  the  Patch 
because  Serge  lives  there.  He  will  turn  out  Serge's 
brother-in-law,  so  Serge  never  can  live  there  again." 

"But  the  baby  is  sick." 

"He  won't  care  for  that.  Perhaps  it  will  kill  the 
baby.  He  doesn't  care."  Never  before  had  she  criti 
cized  her  husband  to  her  child;  she  felt  a  cruel  joy 
as  she  flung  off  this  last  fetter  of  her  marriage. 

"And  old  Mrs.  Kelly,  mamma?  she  can't  be 
moved !  She's  been  in  bed  for  seventeen  years ;  when 
the  Rodins'  woodshed  was  afire  she  wouldn't  let  'em 
move  her ;  she  just  wouldn't !  She  grabbed  the  bed- 
tick  and  held  on;  she  said  she'd  better  die  of  the 
smoke  than  the  moving,  and  she'd  lived  long  enough 
to  be  tired  of  this  world  anyhow,  now  she'd  no  more 
comfort  of  smoking,  'cause  it  hurted  her.  No, 
mamma,  she  can't  be  moved.  It's  unpossible.  /'// 
tell  papa  and  he'll  see." 

"He  will  not  care,"  returned  the  princess,  "but 
come,  Vanya,  I  have  much  to  say  to  you.  Not  here ; 
in  the  summer-house." 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN    WAR   YOU    MAY 

The  summer-house  was  so  thickly  shaded  with 
vines,  woodbine,  clematis  and  wistaria,  that  it  kept 
cool  and  dim  through  the  hottest  summer  glare,  a 
property  most  desirable  in  the  Middle  West,  where 
the  July  and  August  suns  know  all  the  tricks  of  the 
tropics.  It  was  built  of  unhewn  logs,  but  ceiled  and 
floored  within;  and  it  was  set  midway  on  the  hill. 
Above,  the  tall  elms  and  maples  dappled  the  clean 
hillside  with  their  shade;  below,  a  dense  under 
growth  of  brambles,  saplings  and  wild  raspberry 
and  blackberry  bushes  transformed  the  coppice  into 
a  jungle. 

A  single  footpath  was  kept  mowed;  but  often, 
running  along  it,  Johnny-Ivan's  heart  had  jumped 
at  a  sinuous  flash  of  green  and  brown  across  the 
tangle.  The  birds  nested  high  above  danger  from 
the  stable  cats,  which  hunted,  in  gleeful  savagery, 
through  the  thicket,  their  wild  grace,  as  they  leaped 
and  glided,  proclaiming  their  origin.  Orioles, 
thrushes  and  robins  found  here  a  refuge  from  the 
sparrow  banditti,  which  clung  to  the  haunts  of  men, 
where  corn  and  crumbs  were  to  be  had  for  the  steal 
ing.  Blue  jays  took  their  dominion  of  terror,  plun 
dering  nests  at  will;  but  they  were  fewer,  hence 
more  merciful.  So  the  woodland  was  full  of 

102 


IN   WAR   YOU   MAY  103 

singing  birds,  and  the  flaming  head  of  the  wood 
pecker  tapped  on  the  bark,  adding  its  tiny  drum  to 
the  forest  concert.  So  long  the  squirrels  had  been 
left  unmolested  that  they  would  come  to  be  fed  out 
of  Johnny's  hand;  the  quails  hopped  after  crumbs 
almost  at  his  feet.  Of  a  summer  night  the  air  would 
seem  to  throb  with  the  multitudinous  whir  of  happy 
creeping  and  flying  things.  Then  the  princess  would 
come,  with  her  little  lover,  to  sing  her  Russian 
songs  in  the  moonlight. 

She  did  not  dream  that  there  was  always  a  silent, 
frowning  guardian  within  reach,  should  there  ever 
be  need.  Winslow  kept  these  vigils  to  himself. 

Sometimes  she  would  talk  instead  of  sing,  voic 
ing  the  dreams  and  longings  of  a  passionate  mystic 
who  could  not  interpret  her  own  soul,  yet  tried  to 
solve  the  riddle  of  the  universe.  But  Johnny-Ivan 
accepted  all  in  reverence.  Nothing  is  impossible  or 
preposterous  to  a  child.  Universal  love  seems  to  him 
natural  as  his  mother's  tenderness ;  and  God  is  only 
a  more  distant  and  powerful  friend. 

Johnny  loved  the  little  summer-house;  he  never 
spoke  of  the  talks  there ;  they  were  one  of  the  secrets 
shared  with  his  mother.  He  had  been  glad  when 
the  spring  grew  mild  enough  to  allow  again  the 
visits  which  winter  had  forbidden.  There  was 
only  the  beginning  of  greenery  on  the  soft  dark 
boughs  of  the  deciduous  trees;  but  the  conifers,  the 
firs  and  the  cedars  held  their  somber  bronze  over 
winter,  the  orange  and  vermilion  blooms  of  the  ma 
ples  struck  a  brilliant  note  of  color  amid  the  drabs 
and  browns,  and  the  spring  sunshine  flooded  every 
thing. 


104 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 


The  little  boy  ran  gaily  along  the  path,  between 
walls  of  dead  vines  and  shrubs  and  thorny  brush 
wood.  He  carried  his  Oliver  Optic  in  his  hand  to 
read  in  case  his  mother  should  have  to  go  to  speak 
to  any  one;  for  very  often  of  late  "our  people" 
seemed  to  come  to  speak  to  mamma. 

The  princess,  on  her  part,  was  unusually  silent. 
She  sat  down  on  the  rustic  chair  by  the  table,  and 
he  took  a  stool  at  her  feet,  his  dark  curls  pressing 
against  her  knee.  She  had  brought  her  cross-stitch 
work,  but  the  gay  silks  lay  untouched  on  the  linen 
as  she  sat  with  clasped  hands  and  dreamy  eyes. 

All  at  once  a  shadow  fell  over  her  white  skirts  to 
lie  long  and  black  over  Johnny-Ivan's  page.  He 
looked  up.  Serge  Vassilovitch  had  made  the 
shadow;  but  never  had  Johnny-Ivan  seen  a  Serge 
like  this.  He  was  perfectly  sober,  pale  and  anxious- 
looking,  and  the  hands  which  he  stretched  forth 
were  trembling.  Drops  of  sweat  stood  under  the 
black  locks  matted  on  his  forehead. 

"Barina,  you  are  our  fathers  and  mothers!"  he 
murmured.  He  said  something  more  in  Russian. 
Johnny-Ivan  could  not  understand  the  words,  but 
the  tone  was  entreating.  His  speech  came  panting, 
as  if  the  speaker  were  spent  with  running. 

Mrs.  Winslow  hesitated.  She  answered  very  low. 
At  once  the  man  flung  himself  on  his  knees  before 
her,  clutching  her  dress  and  stammering  broken 
sentences  while  his  eyeballs  rolled  up  at  her  in  an 
agony  of  pleading. 

She  drew  a  long  sigh.  "I  can  not  refuse,"  she 
said  in  English,  "but  how  ? — wait !" 

He,  too,  sighed,  but  his  was  a  sigh  of  relief.   He 


IN   WAR   YOU   MAY  105 

scrambled  to  his  feet.  All  this  time  he  had  not  so 
much  as  glanced  at  Johnny-Ivan;  yet  it  was  to 
Johnny  Mrs.  Winslow  turned ;  then  Serge's  big  eyes 
devoured  the  pale,  little,  attentive  face. 

"Ivan,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow,  in  French,  "do  you 
remember  the  oath  you  swore  on  the  sword?" 

A  lump  swelled  in  Johnny-Ivan's  throat  as  he  an 
swered :  "Yes,  mamma." 

"Little  son,  the  time  is  come  for  you  keep  it.  Do 
you  trust  me?" 

"Yes,  mamma,"  said  Johnny-Ivan. 

She  changed  her  tongue  to  English,  perhaps  for 
Serge's  better  comprehension.  "Do  exactly  as  I  say 
— exactly.  Afterward  I  will  explain.  Now,  time  is 
too  precious.  Serge  belongs  to  its.  We  must  pro 
tect  him.  They'd  kill  him  if  they  caught  him.  They 
caught  him,  but  he  got  away;  he — he  hurt  one  of 
them  and  they  will  hang  him  if  they  catch  him — " 

"A — a — i!  yes!"  mumbled  Serge,  moistening  his 
dry  lips. 

"I  can't  help  him  escape,  but  you  can;  you,  my 
darling  little  son,  have  the  life  of  a  man  in  your 
hands." 

Serge's  shadow  wavered  as  if  Serge  had  shud 
dered;  the  shadow  was  all  that  touched  Johnny's 
vision,  for  his  big  eyes  were  glued  to  his  mother's 
face. 

"Get  Serge  under  the  chair  and  put  the  afghan 
over  him — get  under,  Serge — quick !" 

An  incoherent  murmur  came  from  Serge.  Mrs. 
Winslow  replied  imperiously :  "It  is  the  only  way. 
They  suspect  me  at  every  turn.  You  must!  Michael 
will  fetch  food  and  money,  later.  Now — "  she  lapsed 


106  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

into  Russian,  speaking  rapidly  and  with  a  vehe 
mence  that  cowed  the  fugitive.  Submissive  as  a  dog, 
he  moved  at  the  beckoning  of  her  jeweled  white 
hand,  cramping  his  long  legs  under  the  rustic  chair 
which  Mrs.  Winslow  shielded  by  an  afghan,  ere 
she  motioned  Johnny  into  the  chair  and  disposed  his 
feet  on  a  pile  of  sofa  pillows. 

"So"  she  approved,  "ires  bien!  Now,  attend! 
Dearest  child!  you  must  be  brave  and  wise.  The 
officers  will  come  here.  They  will  ask  questions. 
Perhaps  they  will  ask  if  any  one  has  come  here.  You 
will  say,  'Only  mamma.'  'Where  has  she  gone?' 
'She  has  gone  to  the  stables/  You  will  ask  them,  po 
litely,  to  come  in.  Should  they  come,  there  is  the 
bench  where  they  can  sit.  But  do  not  fear!  They 
will  not  come." 

"Mamma,"  said  Johnny-Ivan,  "am  I  to  say  no 
body  came  ?" 

"Yes,  Ivan.  Nobody.  It  is  like  in  war,  you  know. 
In  war  you  may  say  things  not  true." 

"Yes,  mamma.  I  am  to  fool  the  officers  because 
Serge  belongs  to  us." 

"You  are  all  right!"  growled  the  man  under  the 
chair. 

"Then  I  will  go.  Remember,  I  said  I  was  going  to 
the  stables." 

"I  will  remember,  mamma." 

He  watched  her  figure  dwindle  along  the  dim 
path  until  the  narrow  way  twisted  sidewise  and  it 
was  lost  in  the  gray  shadows.  When  his  eyes  gave 
over  their  search  they  fell  upon  the  book,  which  he 
had  retained  mechanically.  It  was  not  a  difficult  part 
to  read  the  pages.  Already  he  was  taking  on  his 


IN   WAR   YOU   MAY  107 

role,  his  heart  beating  faster,  lest  unseen  eyes  should 
have  stolen  up  to  peer  through  the  trees. 

"Batyushka  moi — "*  the  voice  was  meek. 

"Shut  up !"  commanded  Johnny-Ivan,  "some- 
body'll  hear  you." 

Although  he  was  obeying  his  mother  and  meant 
to  obey  her  and  was  keeping  his  oath,  all  of  which 
was  very  great  and  exciting,  just  like  knights  in  a 
book,  he  had  not  quite  lost  his  repugnance  to  the 
man ;  only  now  it  was  smothered  by  pity.  "I'll  take 
care  of  you  all  right,"  he  added.  He  felt  very  old 
and  grand,  also  very  scared;  but,  of  course,  that 
wasn't  to  be  admitted.  The  minutes  crept  on.  The 
fingers  shifting  the  leaves  of  the  book  were  fairly 
steady.  Maybe  the  officers  wouldn't  come.  Still,  if 
they  didn't  it  wouldn't  make  so  much  of  a  story  for 
Peggy.  He  wasn't  sure  that  he  didn't  wish  they 
would  come;  but  like  a  dash  of  cold  water  came  the 
afterthought,  this  story  he  couldn't  tell  Peggy. 
Then,  he  was  quite  certain  he  hoped  that  the  police 
men  wouldn't  come.  He  hoped  in  vain.  First,  some 
of  the  twigs  crackled ;  next,  a  branch  broke ;  then  a 
stifled  voice  called :  "Be  careful,  now,  he's  got  the 
gun  still !"  This  was  quickly  followed  by  a  loud 
shout : 

"Hands  up!"  Three  tanned  and  anxious  faces 
peered  into  the  doorway,  three  pistols  were  leveled 
at  Johnny-Ivan's  curly  black  head. 

He  rose  involuntarily.  "What — t's  the  matter?" 
he  quavered.  He  wasn't  afraid,  but  it  was  so  sud 
den  ;  and,  somehow,  he  had  lost  his  breath. 

*My  little  father. 


loS  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"Good  Lord,  it's  only  a  kid !"  cried  the  first  man ; 
"drop  your  guns !" 

The  pistols  slanted  lower;  the  men  looked  at  the 
little  figure  and  the  peaceful  summer-house;  they 
smiled  rather  sheepishly,  but  the  leader  resumed  his 
official  sternness. 

"Who  are  you?  Mr.  Winslow's  boy?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Johnny-Ivan. 

"Wasn't  any  one  else  here  ?" 

"No,  sir" — he  had  never  told  a  lie  before  in  his 
life,  but  he  told  it  quite  easily,  admiring  himself — 
"only  mamma  was  here." 

"Where  is  your  mamma?" 

"She's  gone  to  the  stable.  She  just  went  a  little 
while  ago.  She  said  she'd  be  right  back.  Did  you 
want  mamma?  Won't  you  come  in?" 

The  men  whispered  together. 

"We're  losing  time,"  called  the  leader,  "let's 
watch  the  stable.  He'd  try  for  a  horse.  Say,  Johnny 
Winslow,  we're  out  after  the  man  who  set  your 
father's  works  afire.  He  was  caught  and  shot  officer 
McNamara,  who's  like  to  die.  Did  you  see  anything 
of  him?  It's  Serge  Vassy— " 

"I  know,"  said  Johnny-Ivan,  "papa  telled  me 
about  him."  He  grew  a  shade  paler. 

"Did  you  see  him  anywhere  in  the  woods  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"If  you  do  see  him,  run  after  us — at  the  barn, 
will  you?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Johnny-Ivan. 

The  bluecoats  withdrew  from  the  doorway. 

Johnny-Ivan  heard  the  crunch  of  heavy  boots 
through  the  thicket.  He  went  to  the  door,  and  as 


IN   WAR   YOU   MAY 


109 


he  stood  there  he  became  aware  that  his  heart  was 
beating  so  fast  that  it  hurt  him.  Recalling  his  false 
hoods,  he  wondered  fearfully  if  he  could  be  going 
to  drop  dead  like  wicked  Ananias.  But  he  had  no 
smallest  thought  of  confession. 

"It's  like  it  is  in  war,"  he  comforted  himself, 
"you  got  to  in  war.  'Sides,  it's  only  to  the  cops,  all 
the  boys  tell  stories  to  the  cops !  They  ain't  like  your 
folks !" 

"Are  they  gone,  gospodi?"* — a  hoarse  whisper 
came  to  him.  In  some  subtile  wise  it  irritated  him; 
here  he  was  doing  all  these  wicked  things  for  a  mur 
derer.  He  had  seen  McNamara  once,  at  a  circus, 
and  he  helped  him  up  to  a  seat.  "Jump !  my  little 
man!"  he  had  said.  "Well,  you  are  a  jumper!" — 
when  Johnny-Ivan  had  nimbly  vaulted  on  to  the 
seat,  which  was  a  splendid  place  where  you  could 
see  'way  down  to  the  horses'  feet! — and  he  had 
laughed  such  a  nice,  loud  laugh.  Now  to  have  to 
help  his  murderer  off  was  pretty  hard. 

"You  keep  quiet!"  commanded  the  boy  sternly, 
in  a  whisper;  "you  stay  right  here  and  draw  your 
foots  in.  I  hear  somebody  coming."  There  was 
some  one  coming.  He  came  from  the  south  by  the 
cow-path,  some  one  who  knew  the  wood.  He  came 
rapidly,  making  so  little  noise  that  only  Johnny-Ivan, 
whose  ears  were  of  the  very  keenest,  could  have 
been  warned;  but  in  a  moment  he  turned  from  the 
cow-path  and  broke,  snapping  and  crushing  the 
underbrush,  through  the  thicket,  to  the  right.  And 
it  was  papa ! 


*Sir. 


no  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

Johnny-Ivan  showed  no  emotion.  "Why,  papa!" 
he  exclaimed  with  mild  surprise. 

Papa  was  hatless;  he  had  torn  his  coat  on  the 
briers  and  scratched  his  face;  little  flecks  of  blood 
showed  on  his  cheek  amid  the  gray  short  whiskers ; 
he  was  breathing  hard,  like  Serge,  and  he  looked 
angry — oh,  but  he  looked  angry ! 

His  eyes  flashed  over  the  dusky  summer-house; 
lucky  Serge's  boot  was  safe  under  cover ! 

"Who's  been  here,  Johnny?"  said  papa. 

"The  coppers,  papa,  the  p'lice.  They're  after 
Serge-" 

"I  know.  He's  been  seen  in  this  wood.  Did  you 
see  him?" 

"No,  papa."  It  was  said.  It  had  to  be  said.  It 
was  like  in  war.  Johnny-Ivan  shut  his  little  teeth 
firmly. 

"Where's  mamma?  Was  she  here?" 

"She  went  to  the  stable.  She  told  me  to  stay — " 

"Ah-h!"  papa  interrupted,  "when?" 

"Just  before  the  p'lice—" 

"Did  she  hear  any  whistle  or  anything?" — papa 
wouldn't  give  you  a  chance  to  finish  your  sentence 
at  all. 

"No,  sir,  I  don't  think—" 

"But  the  blue  jays?" 

"They're  always  whistling." 

Only  a  second  papa  hesitated,  then  he  turned  to 
Johnny-Ivan.  "Come  with  me,"  he  said. 

"But  mamma  telled  me — " 

"Mamma  didn't  know  the  danger  you're  in.  If 
that  devil  found  you  in  the  wood  alone — he's  due  to 
swing  anyhow;  and  he'd  strike  me  through  you. 


IN   WAR   YOU   MAY  in 

Come,  we'll  go  to  the  stables  together.  Go  on  ahead, 
Johnny,  run  ahead,  I'm  coming." 

Johnny-Ivan  had  never  been  so  perplexed  in  his 
life.  To  leave  his  charge  when  mamma  had  told  him 
to  stay — but  it  would  be  sure  discovery  for  Serge 
if  he  didn't  go.  Reluctantly  he  edged  out  of  the 
door;  on  the  threshold  he  ventured  a  further  pro 
test  :  "Mamma  might  come  back,  and  he  might 
hurt  mamma — " 

"Oh,  mamma's  safe,  he  wouldn't  hurt  mamma. 
Be  quick f  Johnny." 

Johnny-Ivan  ran  out  obediently;  he  ran  a  little 
space  and  halted,  transfixed  by  his  father's  stern, 
quiet  voice : 

"Now,  you!  Come  out  of  that  with  your  hands 
up,  or  I'll  begin  firing.  I  saw  you  move  that  afghan. 
Out  with  you !" 

The  afghan  fell  in  a  heap  as  Serge  crawled  out. 
His  revolver  shook  in  his  hand. 

"Drop  it !"  said  Winslow.  It  was  strangest  of  all 
to  Johnny-Ivan  how  quietly  papa  spoke.  Serge 
looked  a  second  into  the  shining  barrel;  he  picked 
himself  up. 

"You  got  the  drop  on  me,"  said  he  sullenly. 

"I  congratulate  you  on  your  mastery  of  American 
idiom,  Mr.  Vassy,"  said  Winslow,  "I  have.  Stand 
up.  Now,  Johnny,  run  to  the  stable  and  fetch  the  po 
licemen.  Hurry  quick,  for  if  you  don't  I  shall  shoot 
Serge,  because  he'll  try  to  escape.  I  don't  mind ;  but 
he  may.  Hurry !" 

"Please  don't  shoot  Serge,  papa!"  pleaded 
Johnny;  "he  was  there  all  the  time,  and  he  never 
hurted  me." 


112  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

His  queer  smile  widened  Winslow's  mouth;  not 
in  the  least  a  pleasant  smile;  nor  was  his  voice 
pleasant.  "Then  hurry  back  with  the  police, 
Johnny,"  he  said,  "hurry!" 

Johnny-Ivan  shot  a  single  glance  at  Serge ;  it  was 
to  ask  for  orders. 

"Guess,  yes,  you  hurry,"  said  Serge;  his  hands 
were  uncomfortable  in  the  air;  he  looked  shrunken 
and  scared,  and  his  dirty,  pale  face  was  miserable. 

Johnny  sped  away  like  the  wind. 

As  he  raced  stableward,  his  mind  worked  faster 
than  his  feet.  The  only  chance  to  save  Serge  was 
mamma ;  if  he  could  only  tell  mamma  first !  But  out 
side  of  the  stable  he  encountered  the  leader  of  the 
policemen  and  mamma.  There  was  no  help  for  it. 
He  blurted  it  out  in  a  sentence:  "Papa's  caught 
Serge;  he  says  to  hurry — they're  at  the  summer- 
house." 

"By  hell !"  swore  the  policeman  joyously ;  "come 
on,  boys!" 

He  called  over  his  shoulder  as  he  pelted  over  the 
grass,  the  others  hard  on  his  heels : 

"Best  take  the  little  boy  into  the  house,  ma'am ! 
Boys,  have  your  barkers  ready.  We've  got  him ;  but 
he's  desperate !" 

At  last  Johnny-Ivan  could  tell  his  mother,  chok 
ing  piteously  over  his  last  words :  "I  did  try, 
mamma,  but  papa's  so  dreffle  smart,  and — and — 
Serge  was  'fraid  of  papa !" 

"I  don't  wonder,  Vanya,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow, 
smiling  sadly,  "so  am  I.  But — it  isn't  hopeless  for 
Serge  yet,  even  if  he  gets  to  jail." 

"He's  a  drefHe  wicked  man,  mamma,  but  I  don't 


IN   WAR   YOU   MAY  u3 

want  him  hanged.   I  telled  papa  a  lie,  too.    I  guess 
he  knows  it,  too." 

"Never  mind,  darling,  it  was  to  save  life.  I'm  not 
excusing  poor  Serge.  He  was  wicked.  It's  all  a 
terrible  puzzle,  Ivan.  Come,  let  us  go  back  to  the 
house,  my  poor  little  son." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ST.  LUKE'S 

There  was  a  scrap  of  dialogue  very  popular  at 
this  period  in  Fairport : 

"Have  you  been  to  church  ?" 

"No,  I  went  to  St.  Luke's." 

And  should  the  speaker's  wife  reprove  him,  he 
could  answer:  "Well,  what  shall  I  call  him?  his 
name's  St.  Luke." 

St.  Luke  Darrell  was  indeed  the  lawful  name 
\vhich  the  owner  of  Fairport's  best  appointed  livery 
stable  still  signed  to  legal  documents,  although  Luke 
Darrell  was  on  his  neat  black  sign.  He  himself  was 
a  tall,  thin  man  who  was  clean-shaven  in  a  time  of 
luxuriant  beards  or  mustaches.  He  had  a  gentle  voice 
and  soothing  manner,  very  successful  with  custom 
ers  and  horses.  He  was  fond  of  black  alpaca  coats 
and  white  ties  for  summer,  and  in  some  respects  he 
was  as  austere  in  morals  as  in  costume.  He  never 
swore;  he  drank  only  in  the  presence  of  ladies  (be 
cause  he  was  sure,  so  he  explained,  that  if  he  made 
that  a  rule  he  should  never  exceed  moderation)  ;  he 
was  the  devoted  husband  of  one  wife,  and  the  ex 
cellent  father  of  two  children,  and  there  were  two 
things  of  which  he  used  to  boast :  "I've  never  in  my 
life,"  said  Luke,  inflating  his  chest  with  a  modest 

114 


ST.   LUKE'S  115 

man's  self-respect,  "I've  never  been  fooled  in  a  horse 
trade,  and  I've  never  fooled  anybody  else." 

No  one  in  Fairport  doubted  the  absolute  accuracy 
of  this  vaunt.  We  all  knew  Luke  was  as  honest  as 
he  was  shrewd;  in  consequence  he  bought  horses 
for  most  of  the  county  and  eventually  for  the  gov 
ernment. 

This  unparalleled,  almost  bizarre  honesty — when 
one  considers  how  the  companionship  of  that  noble 
animal,  the  horse,  appears  to  debauch  the  consciences 
of  even  the  godly  themselves,  when  they  come  to 
barter  him — was  considered  Luke's  right  to  his 
name.  Luke  attended  church  regularly — by  proxy; 
that  is,  he  sent  his  wife  and  his  contribution.  He 
himself  looked  over  the  books  at  the  office,  and 
talked  with  his  visitors.  Gradually  the  custom  grew 
up  for  men  to  gather,  of  a  Sunday  morning,  in  Luke 
Darrell's  ample  office,  which  was  warm  in  winter 
and  cool  with  western  and  southern  breezes  in  sum 
mer.  There,  on  comfortably  tilted  chairs,  in  an  easy 
masculine  undress  of  shirt-sleeves,  Luke  and  his 
friends  would  discuss  the  highest  themes.  This  is 
not  saying  that  they  did  not  relax  into  that  natural 
and  casual  gossip  suggested  by  the  turns  of  conver 
sation  ;  but  Luke  always  gave  a  philosophic  or  moral 
twist  to  the  most  trivial  episodes.  The  horseman 
did  his  own  thinking  and  expressed  his  thoughts  as 
one  who,  like  John  Knox,  feared  not  the  face  of 
man.  If  his  similes  and  apologues  made  free  with 
Heaven  and  earth  and  if  his  thought  itself  was  au 
dacious,  at  least  there  was  never  a  taint,  anywhere, 
of  cruelty  or  of  coarseness.  He  did  offend  the 
straight-laced  by  his  remark,  one  Sunday :  "Lots  of 


n6  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

orthodox  ministers  have  a  sight  more  John  Milton 
than  Jesus  Christ  in  their  preaching,  which  is  queer, 
seeing  that  while  some  folks  doubt  about  Jesus 
Christ  being  inspired,  everybody  knows  for  sure 
John  Milton  wasn't."  But  he  made  amends  when  a 
certain  famous  clerical  heretic  came  on  the  carpet. 
Said  he :  "If  the  council  don't  put  that  feller  out  for 
heresy  they  ought  to  put  him  out  for  foolishness.  If 
a  man's  outgrown  his  church's  cloth  why  don't  he 
clear  out  to  another  gospel  shop  where  he  can  get  a 
bigger  suit?  I  say,  if  you're  playing  a  game  and 
don't  like  the  rules,  quit!  It's  better'n  trying  to  kill 
the  umpire !" 

On  the  afternoon  succeeding  the  Winslow  fire, 
Luke  was  in  his  office  with  Jack  Rand,  the  black 
smith,  and  young  Miles  Standish,  who  was  learning 
the  wagon  business  across  the  river. 

Luke's  office  gave  on  the  street.  It  was  painted  a 
light  blue  as  to  walls,  with  oaken  woodwork,  and 
was  professionally  decorated  with  pictures  of  fa 
mous  trotters,  from  Flora  Temple  to  the  equine  idols 
of  the  day,  Dexter  and  Goldsmith  Maid.  There  was 
also  a  large  lithograph  of  Alexis  II,  a  horse  of  no 
mean  record,  the  glory  of  Luke's  own  stable.  No 
woman's  drawing-room  could  be  kept  with  more 
rigid  neatness  than  Darrell's  office;  a  neatness  ex 
tending  to  the  stable  where  the  hose  was  sloshing  on 
the  cement  floor  clay  and  night,  and  brass  and  silver 
winked  in  the  sunshine. 

Darrell  sat  at  ease  by  his  desk,  his  eyes  examin 
ing  the  immaculate  row  of  top  buggies  in  the  car 
riage-room  beyond,  his  tongue  discoursing  on  the 
public  beneficence  of  the  Art  Museum. 


ST.   LUKE'S  117 

"We  got  to  have  some  interest  besides  making 
money,"  said  Darrell.  "War's  over  now,  and  the 
colored  brother's  got  a  lot  more  than  was  coming 
to  him,  properly,  and  the  public  gaze  is  naturally 
squinting  round  to  find  a  new  claim.  The  Phila 
delphia  show  has  stirred  up  the  whole  country. 
We're  all  after  Art,  now." 

"We  would  better  be  after  good  taste,"  interjected 
young  Standish,  who  was  waiting  for  his  horse  and 
buggy. 

"Humph!  Taste— what  is  taste?" 

"Yes,  that's  it.  What  is  it?"  echoed  the  black 
smith,  who  was  a  man  of  sensibility  but  few  words, 
and  commonly  acted  as  a  kind  of  Greek  chorus  to 
Luke. 

"What's  your  idea,  Luke?"  said  Standish — every 
one  called  Darrell  by  his  Christian  name,  a  famil 
iarity  implying  affection  rather  than  light  esteem,  in 
his  case;  he  was  simply  a  man  whom  no  one  could 
regard  formally — "what  do  you  make  out  of  it?" 

"Not  much.  All  I'm  sure  of  is  that  mighty  little 
of  it's  inherited;  none  of  it's  made;  the  big  major 
ity's  just  contaged,  like  the  measles.  That's  why 
these  expositions  are  so  useful.  Most  anybody  can 
catch  things.  Why,  7  don't  know  no  more  'bout 
china  than  a  horse;  but  after  I'd  looked  over  that 
lot  of  truck  Mr.  Winslow  sent,  I  went  home  and  got 
my  wife  to  give  away  our  big  china  riggers  for  the 
mantel-piece,  and  I  got  a  set  of  china  with  blue 
onions  on  it  and  not  a  mite  of  gilt.  'Mazing  thing 
was,  she  was  right  with  me;  she'd  been  there,  too. 
And  she  was  at  the  world's  fair  with  me.  There  was 
a  show !" 


n8  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 


"I  don't  see  how  you  saw  very  much  of  it,  Luke. 
I  heard  you  were  only  one  day  in  Philadelphia." 

"Well,  I  wasn't  there  long  enough  to  take  the  ma 
chinery  to  pieces,  but  I  could  see  it  all  right.  Ain't 
that  the  telephone?" 

"I'll  answer  it,  Luke,"  said  the  obliging  Tom.  "I 
know  how."  The  others  admired  Rand  boldly  tak 
ing  down  the  receiver.  "Hello !  Who  wants  twenty- 
seven?"  called  Rand  in  a  clear,  loud  voice.  In 
stantly  he  plucked  off  his  hat  and  unconsciously  as 
sumed  a  courteous  expression,  for  man  was  new  to 
the  telephone  in  the  early  eighties,  and  could  not 
quite  realize  his  protections.  Rand  said  "Yes'm," 
three  times,  and  reported :  "Mrs.  Winslow  wants  a 
closed  carriage  at  Oberheimer's  store  soon's  you  can 
get  it  there." 

Darrell  whistled  through  the  tube  ordering  the 
carriage.  When  he  returned  to  his  seat,  Standish 
perceived  that  his  face  was  extremely  thoughtful, 
not  to  say  puzzled.  He  sat  down  again,  but  did  not 
pick  up  the  thread  of  his  remarks. 

Standish  started  a  new  topic.  "I  hear  Winslow's 
bought  the  Patch." 

"Good  thing,  too.  He'll  clean  off  the  ground  and 
make  a  decent  place  of  it.  They've  needed  cleaning 
for  a  long  while.  They're  mostly  squatters,  but  the 
ground  belonged  to  an  unsettled  estate  and  couldn't 
be  sold,  and  the  heirs  were  in  St.  Louis  and  Europe, 
so  nothing  was  done,  though  I  guess  they've  got 
every  known  disease  on  tap  there,  and  the  place  is  a 
perfect  fire-trap.  Start  a  fire  once  down  there  in  the 
west  end  near  the  lumber  yards,  and  there's  no 
guessing  where  it  would  stop.  Fire's  like  the  wrath 


ST.   LUKE'S  119 

of  God,  dreadful  thorough,  but  ,not  at  all  discrimi 
nating." 

"You  know  Winslow,  don't  you  ?" 

"I  just  do.  Known  him  twenty  year.  Bought 
every  horse,  or  its  dam,  he's  got  for  him.  He  lent 
me  money  to  go  into  business." 

"He's  a  pretty  decent  fellow,  isn't  he?" 

"You  won't  find  much  decenter  when  you  git  to 
Heaven,  though  he  covers  up  his  goodness  as  care 
ful  as  most  folks  their  sins." 

Although  Darrell  was  talking  easily,  he  gnawed 
his  lips  and  frowned  in  an  absent  way,  at  the  first 
pause,  and  his  eyes  kept  straying  to  the  clock. 

"That  telephone  bothers  him,"  was  the  observer's 
conclusion;  and  he  was  right. 

Darrell  distrusted  Mrs.  Winslow  with  all  his 
shrewd  and  prejudiced  wits;  he  suspected  that  she 
was  intent  on  some  scheme  to  help  Serge  Vassilo- 
vitch  escape.  It  is  one  thing,  however,  to  suspect 
ladies  of  high  standing,  and  perilously  another  to 
express  one's  suspicion. 

Finally,  smiling  a  dry  sort  of  smile,  he  repaired  to 
the  stable,  where  he  had  a  short  colloquy  with  the 
man  who  was  putting  the  horses  into  the  carriage. 

Returning,  he  went  to  the  telephone.  The  two  lis 
teners  heard  him  plainly. 

"Hello!  Give  me  Mr.  Winslow's  residence. 
Thirty-nine.  This  Winslow's?  Mrs.  Winslow  in? 
Oh,  well,  Mr.  Winslow'll  do.  Ain't  he?  Well,  when 
he  comes  back,  will  you  tell  him  to  call  up  Darrell's 
livery  stable?  Much  obliged.  That's  all." 

Darrell  whistled  softly  as  he  took  his  chair  again. 
Standish  thought  that  the  men  were  a  long  while 


120  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

getting  the  horses  into  the  carriage.  His  own  buggy 
was  waiting,  and  he  had  time  to  ask  and  receive  all 
the  details  of  the  Winslow  fire,  and  still  the  grooms 
were  buckling  straps  and  dusting  cushions  and 
finally  rubbing  the  horses  and  joking  with  each 
other. 

"That's  how  you  hitch  up  in  a  hurry,  is  it?"  said 
Standish. 

Luke  puckered  his  eyes  over  the  leisurely  stable 
men,  but  without  any  rebuke.  "I  ain't  quite  sure  of 
the  direction,"  said  he. 

"Tom  took  the  message — are  you  uncertain, 
Tom?" 

The  blacksmith  looked  stolidly  at  Darrell. 

"I  guess  so,"  replied  he  ambiguously. 

"So  you're  waiting  for  Mr.  Winslow  to  enlighten 
you — or  be  enlightened?"  said  Standish.  "I  catch 
on." 

"You  young  fellers  are  awful  bright,"  said  Dar 
rell. 

Standish  laughed.  "You  might  tell  me  the  game." 

"There  ain't  none,"  said  Luke,  "and  where  a 
lady's  concerned  there  hadn't  ought  to  be,  either." 

"You're  right,"  agreed  Standish  heartily.  "Good 
morning." 

After  he  was  gone  Rand  asked  no  questions  and 
Darrell  read  the  paper.  There  was  no  sound  in  the 
cool  dark  stable  save  the  stamping  of  the  horses'  feet 
and  the  murmur  of  the  voices  of  the  two  men  still 
harnessing  the  horses  for  Mrs.  Winslow. 

Ten  minutes  passed.  Fifteen.  The  telephone  Sell 
rang.  Darrell  answered  it. 

"Yes.    That  you,   Mr.    Winslow?    Why,   Mrs. 


ST.   LUKE'S  121 

Winslow  just  'phoned  she  wanted  a  carriage  sent  to 
— Oberheimer's  I  think  was  the  name,  for  her.  Is  it 
Oberheimer's  house  or  Oberheimer's  store  she  wants 
it?  The  house  is  off  in  the  east  end  and  the  store's 
west;  I'd  hate — yes,  well,  about  thirty-five  minutes 
ago,  it  might  have  been  longer.  Wait  a  minute, 
I'll  ask  the  man  who  got  the  message.  Was  it  two- 
thirty  when  you  got  that  'phone,  Tom?" 

Tom  Rand,  with  no  sign  either  of  curiosity  or  in 
telligence,  replied  it  was  two  thirty-two  exactly. 

The  monologue  at  the  instrument  continued. 
"Two  thirty-two,  exactly.  .  .  .  No,  but  it  is 
ready.  I  tried  to  get  you  before.  .  .  .  Oh, 
that's  all  right ;  don't  want  to  make  mistakes,  that's 
all.  It'll  be  there  in  no  time." 

Luke  smiled  again  as  he  issued  his  orders :  "Go 
in  fifteen  minutes." 

Tom  did  not  smile,  but  a  glimmer  of  admiration 
flickered  in  his  eyes,  and  Luke  passed  him  a  cigar 
out  of  the  "good  box." 

All  this  while,  at  Oberheimer's  little  store  oppo 
site  the  Patch,  Mrs.  Winslow  and  Johnny-Ivan  were 
waiting.  Johnny-Ivan  didn't  know  why  they  were 
in  the  store — a  modest  combination  of  grocery  and 
bakery  with  which  Peggy  and  he  were  quite  fa 
miliar,  and  many  a  nickel  had  they  both  spent  upon 
toothsome  German  dainties,  the  Berliner  Pfann- 
kuchen  and  coffee  cakes,  the  sweet  pretzels  and 
Marzipan;  but  munching  a  Pfannkuchen,  his  hand 
kerchief  spread  on  his  knee  for  napkin,  he  was  highly 
content  with  the  moment.  His  previous  experience 
was  obliterated.  He  had  followed  his  mother  to  the 
house.  Mamma  had  gone  into  her  room  (after  she 


122  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

had  locked  the  doors)  ;  she  had  come  out  with  the 
pretty  leather  bag  with  silver  letters  on  it  which  he 
— helped,  of  course,  by  papa — had  given  her  for 
Christmas,  and  she  had  told  him  to  come  with  her. 
First,  though,  she  had  dressed  him  in  clean  clothes. 
Then  she  went  out  into  the  yard,  leaving  Johnny- 
Ivan  with  the  bag  on  the  piazza.  She  threw  some 
cushions  over  the  bag,  and  told  Johnny-Ivan  not 
to  speak  about  it.  He  felt  sure  something  was  on 
foot  to  help  Serge,  but  he  asked  no  questions.  After 
a  while,  mamma  came  out  again,  and  they  walked 
out  of  the  yard  together ;  they  walked  all  the  way  to 
Oberheimer's. 

"We'll  rest  here,"  mamma  said. 

They  had  a  long  rest,  longer  than  mamma  fan 
cied,  Johnny  thought,  for  she  kept  going  to  the  door 
and  glancing  down  the  street. 

Finally  she  went  out ;  she  told  Johnny  she  was  go 
ing  to  telephone ;  when  she  came  back  she  was  look 
ing  less  anxious ;  before  her  arrival,  however,  a  car 
riage  had  drawn  up  to  the  door,  a  nice,  shining,  new 
livery  carriage  with  two  black  horses.  Into  this  his 
mother  pushed  Johnny  and  the  bag,  with  an  order 
to  the  driver  which  he  didn't  catch.  They  drove  in 
the  direction  of  Overlook.  Johnny  thought  they 
were  going  to  return  home ;  but  they  halted  outside 
the  drive  and  there,  strange  to  say,  was  Michael  in 
the  farm  wagon,  sitting  on  a  trunk.  And  (which 
was  funny)  Michael  had  his  white  collar  and  tie 
under  his  blue  blouse ;  they  were  sticking  out. 

Mamma  said  something  to  Michael  in  Russian; 
Johnny  knew  enough  Russian  to  understand  that 
it  was  something  about  a  trunk.  Then  Michael 


ST.   LUKE'S  123 

hoisted  the  trunk  on  the  back  of  the  carriage.  The 
trunk  was  all  covered  over  with  a  rubber  cloth,  so  he 
couldn't  tell  whether  it  was  mamma's  trunk,  or  what 
it  was. 

"Now  it  won't  get  dusty,"  said  mamma. 

Michael  came  and  stood  by  mamma  and  looked  at 
her  and  at  Johnny.  It  was  very  strange  indeed,  but 
Michael  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  cry.  Of  course 
that  was  impossible,  Michael  being  a  big  man  and 
there  being  nothing  to  cry  about.  Mamma  said 
more  things  in  Russian,  very  low  and  very  fast,  and 
then  Michael  stepped  back  to  his  own  horses,  and 
their  carriage  turned  around. 

By  this  time  Johnny-Ivan  began  to  suspect  that 
there  was  something  very  strange  in  the  air. 

"Mamma,  what  are  we  doing?"  asked  he. 

"We  are  running  away,  Ivan,  you  and  I,"  she  an 
swered. 

"Where?"  said  he. 

"Where  papa  can't  find  us  and  put  you  in  a  school 
far  away  from  me,  where  you  will  be  wretched  and 
homesick  and  they  may — oh,  they  may  do  anything 
cruel  to  you,  my  darling!"  She  caught  him  in  her 
arms  and  held  him  tight  to  her.  "Don't  you  know 
how  angry  papa  will  be  for  what  you  have  done  this 
morning?" 

"I — I  told  him  a  lie,"  said  Johnny  in  an  awestruck 
voice,  "but — it  was  like  in  war,  wasn't  it,  mamma  ?  I 
had  to,  to  save  Serge." 

"You  did  right,  darling.  I'm  proud  of  you.  But 
papa  will  not  understand.  Ivan,  I'm  not  going  to 
call  him  papa  to  you  any  more;  I  can't,  it's  too 
dreadful — ah,  it's  all  too  dreadful!"  She  flung  her 


124  THE    MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

head  down  on  his  little  shoulders,  but  instantly  she 
held  it  erect  and  dried  her  eyes. 

The  little  boy  kissed  her.  At  this  moment  they 
were  passing  the  Winter  place,  and  all  at  once 
Johnny-Ivan  realized  that  he  was  parting  from  his 
comrade. 

"Mamma,"  he  whispered,  "would  there  be  any  ob 
jection  stopping  so  I  could  tell  Peggy  good-by?" 

Mamma  understood :  it  was  part  of  Olga  Wins- 
low's  charm,  this  quick  perception  of  distress  how 
ever  different  from  her  own. 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Ivan, — anyhow,  it  would  be  only 
a  few  days — maybe  you  can  write  to  Peggy." 

Johnny-Ivan  did  not  understand,  he  could  not 
grasp  the  situation.  He  thought  they  were  only  to 
go  for  a  few  days  to  help  Serge  escape  somehow; 
then  papa  would  get  over  being  angry  and  fetch 
them  back.  He  nodded  his  head,  quite  reconciled. 
It  would  be  rather  grand  to  have  an  adventure  to 
tell  Peggy,  if  only  mamma  would  let  him  tell  the 
whole.  Guess  Peggy  would  reckon  he  was  some 
good  in  a  Blood  Feud,  after  all ! 

In  peace  approaching  complacency,  therefore,  he 
sat  by  his  silent  mother,  while  the  fields  and  the  lit 
tle  houses  and  the  flowering  trees  and  all  the  loveli 
ness  of  spring  drifted  past  them.  Soon  they  were  in 
the  town,  clattering  through  the  streets. 

They  drew  up  before  the  tall  red  building  with  its 
big  unsheltered  platform,  on  the  side  of  the  many 
railway  tracks.  Mrs.  Winslow  got  out  of  the  car 
riage  with  Johnny.  The  driver  hitched  his  horses 
and  followed  with  the  trunk. 

"Don't  seem  in  a  hurry  or  frightened  or  any- 


ST.  LUKE'S  125 

thing,"  mamma  had  whispered;  so  Johnny-Ivan 
stuck  his  tiny  fists  in  his  pockets  with  a  manly  air, 
and  sauntered  into  the  station. 

No  one  they  knew  was  there,  nor  did  any  one 
come  during  the  few  minutes  they  had  to  wait. 

But  just  as  the  long  dingy  line  of  cars  pulled  out, 
Johnny,  who  was  at  the  window  (having  a  wild 
hope,  be  the  truth  known,  that  Peggy  might  be  pass 
ing  on  the  street  with  her  mamma  or  Aunt  Winter), 
gave  an  exclamation:  "Oh,  mamma,  there's  our 
wagon  and  the  grays,  but  there's  a  boy  driving. 
Nor  he  don't  know  how  to  drive  worth  nothing!" 
he  concluded  scornfully. 

His  mother  did  not  lift  her  head.  "It's  too  late 
now,"  was  her  strange  answer;  "and  he  wouldn't 
be  in  the  wagon ;  he'd  have  the  buggy."  As  the  speed 
of  the  cars  slackened  on  the  bridge  Olga  looked  back 
a  moment  and  studied  the  little  city  spread  along  the 
fair  river  which  was  barred  with  silver  by  the  set 
ting  sun.  Her  eyes  were  dark  with  thought. 

"For  the  last  time,"  she  said  in  Russian,  "another 
leaf  of  failure."  But  before  the  words  ended, 
Johnny  touched  her  in  some  movement  and  she  flung 
her  arm  about  him,  saying  softly :  "Golden  one,  you 
make  up  for  the  whole  world !" 

Johnny  snuggled  closer  to  her.  But  in  a  flash  he 
sat  up,  exclaiming  excitedly:  "Why,  mamma,  look! 
there's  Michael!" 

Michael,  truly  enough,  was  coming  down  the 
aisle  of  the  car  in  his  American  Sunday  coat  and 
white  shirt.  He  looked  deprecating  and  mild,  and 
bent  his  head  before  mamma  and  spread  out  his 
hands — which  wore  his  driving-gloves.  "Me,  too, 


126  THE   MAN  OF  THE   HOUR 

your  mercy,"  he  said  in  his  own  tongue,  his  voice 
choking,  "me,  too.   Ekk — r !   Could  not  bear  it !" 

Then  mamma  and  Michael  talked  a  long  while  in 
Russian,  and  there  were  tears  in  mamma's  eyes  and 
they  talked  so  fast  Johnny-Ivan  couldn't  make  out 
very  much  they  said,  only  that  Michael  wanted  to 
come.  "Oh,  let  him!"  begged  Johnny-Ivan. 

So  finally  mamma  did  let  him  stay.  She  wanted 
to  buy  him  a  ticket,  but  he  smiled  and  showed  the 
ticket  to  Chicago  which  he  had  bought  already. 

It  was  a  good  thing,  too,  Johnny  considered,  that 
they  brought  Michael,  for  the  train  being  a  "local" 
only  went  part  way  to  Chicago,  and  they  had  to  wait 
three  or  four  hours  for  another  train,  at  a  queer  lit 
tle  place  where  they  couldn't  get  any  supper.  So  it 
was  dark  night  before  they  began  to  see  villages  on 
the  prairie  and  then  long  rows  of  streets,  winking 
stars  at  each  other,  and  horse-cars  and  big  factories 
with  black  windows  or  flaming  chimneys.  Johnny 
found  it  infinitely  interesting  to  look  into  the  back 
yards  and  the  curtainless,  lighted  rooms  where  men 
in  shirt-sleeves  and  tousled,  black-haired  women 
were  eating  and  laughing  and  smoking.  The 
wooden  houses  were  painted  a  sooty  gray  with 
smoke.  There  were  a  great  many  rags  and  tin  cans 
in  the  yards.  The  denizens  of  the  quarter  were  un 
clean,  often  almost  repulsive;  but  (which  surprised 
Johnny)  they  all  seemed  to  be  cheerful. 

"They're  dreffle  poor  people,  mamma,  ain't  they?" 
he  whispered.  She  nodded.  "But  they're  lafftn', 
mamasa*  I  guess  they'll  be  rich  pretty  soon." 

*Mamma. 


ST.   LUKE'S  127 

But  mamma  paid  no  attention.  She  had  risen  to 
her  feet  and  Michael  had  taken  the  bags.  The  train 
had  left  the  houses;  they  were  passing  high,  dark 
walls,  and  now  it  was  darker.  And  overhead  were 
iron  rafters  and  a  glass  ceiling,  and  there  was  a  noise 
of  shouting  which  no  one  seemed  to  heed. 

"We're  there,  dear,"  said  mamma.  With  her 
words  Johnny  felt  himself  pushing  in  a  crowd  which 
seemed  to  tower  bulkily  far  above  his  small  stature. 
He  was  propelled  forward  and  then  down  the  car 
steps  and  along  a  path  between  two  shining,  cough 
ing  engines  up  to  a  little  gate. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  gate  stood — papa ! 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    END    OF    THE    GOLDEN    AGE 

It  was  most  surprising,  but  papa  did  not  seem  in 
the  least  surprised. 

"Ah,  Johnny!"  he  said.  "Michael,  take  my  bag, 
too.  Where  are  your  checks,  Olga  ?" 

"Why,  papa !"  cried  Johnny-Ivan,  "I  didn't  know 
you  were  coming." 

Papa  made  no  answer;  he  had  given  Michael  his 
bag  and  taken  Johnny's  hand.  His  arm  was  offered 
to  mamma. 

She  accepted  it  without  a  word.  Her  veil  was 
down  over  her  face. 

"The  Grand  Pacific,  Michael,  if  you  get  lost ;  but 
you  won't ;  keep  close  to  us — only  a  step — yes,  there 
are  the  hacks.  Make  a  dreadful  racket,  don't  they? 
It  oughtn't  to  be  allowed.  Here,  you !  take  us  to  the 
Grand  Pacific." 

In  a  daze  between  pleasure  at  the  new  sights  and 
sounds  and  a  sense  of  calamity  and  fright  which  he 
could  not  understand,  but  which  none  the  less  rested 
heavy  on  his  young  heart,  the  boy  was  lifted  into 
the  cab.  He  leaned  his  cheek  against  the  window; 
he  was  on  the  back  seat  with  papa,  and  mamma  sat 
on  the  front  seat.  They  had  put  Michael  outside  on 
the  box  with  the  driver. 

128 


THE   END   OF   THE   GOLDEN   AGE  129 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  said  mamma. 
Johnny  was  afraid  she  was  still  "mad"  at  papa,  her 
voice  sounded  so  queer. 

"Oh,  I  think  we'd  better  stop  a  day  in  Chicago, 
long  enough  for  you  to  do  some  shopping,  and  then 
go  back." 

Mamma  said  nothing. 

"I  found  out  you  had  gone  to  the  depot,"  said 
papa,  "and  I  calculated  you  would  take  this  train. 
I  took  the  next  one,  the  fast  express,  you  waited  for. 
I  was  behind  you  all  the  time  in  a  Pullman.  I  took 
a  state-room;  that's  how  Mike  didn't  see  me  when 
he  went  through  the  train." 

Mamma  never  answered.  Papa  didn't  seem  angry, 
however;  he  helped  mamma  out  and  showed  her 
their  rooms  in  the  hotel.  They  were  very  large,  with 
flowery  velvet  carpets  and  great  windows  draped  in 
lace  and  velvet.  The  splendor  was  prodigious,  al 
most  like  the  royal  palace  in  Saint  Petersburg.  More 
magnificent,  however,  was  a  vast  banqueting  hall  to 
which  his  father  took  him  at  once,  and  where  he 
bestowed  on  him  a  lavish  dinner,  with  ice-cream 
and  nuts  and  raisins.  Mamma  did  not  come 
down. 

After  the  meal  the  two  stepped  into  a  very  little 
room,  and  it  moved  right  up  through  the  floors  in 
a  most  amazing  way.  Johnny's  hand  found  a  fold 
of  his  father's  trousers  and  gripped  it  tightly,  but 
his  stoical  little  face  showed  none  of  his  terrors. 
He  did  venture,  however,  to  ask  if  Michael  had 
something  to  eat ;  he  had  seen  mamma's  tray  at  the 
door  before  they  went  down  the  great  marble  stair 
case.  His  father  reassured  him  as  to  Michael's  case. 


1 30  THE    MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

Therefore,  it  was  without  any  deep  misgiving, — on 
the  whole  rather  with  relief  that  papa  had  come  and 
cut  their  journey  short,  since  he  seemed  to  have  for 
gotten  all  about  Serge, — that  Johnny  obediently  let 
his  father  undress  him  and  put  him  to  bed. 

"Mamma  has  a  headache,  but  she  will  come  kiss 
you  good  night,"  Mr.  Winslow  told  him,  and  sus 
pecting  nothing,  Johnny  kept  himself  awake  until 
his  mother  appeared.  She  sat  down  on  the  bed  and 
he  laid  his  head  on  her  knee  and  sleepily  kissed  her 
hand,  which  was  very  cold. 

"You  better  come  right  to  bed,  mamma,"  he  ad 
vised;  "won't  you  sleep  with  me?" 

"No,  Vanya,  your  father  will  sleep  with  you," 
she  said. 

Johnny  reared  up  in  bed  like  a  colt.  "Why, 
mamma,  papa  never  slept  with  me  in  my  life !  why — 
maybe — maybe  I'd  kick  him!  I  do  kick  when  I'm 
'sleep." 

"He  is  going  to  sleep  with  you  to-night,"  his 
mother  replied. 

"But — mamma,  I'd  rather  have  you!  I  do  want 
to  have  you.  I  kep'  thinking,  now  I'll  sleep  with 
mamma !  and  I  was  so  glad." 

Mamma — was  it  possible  mamma  was  crying? 
He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow.  Not  a  word  of  all 
the  words  in  his  heart  did  he  say,  for  at  this  mo 
ment  Winslow  walked  into  the  room.  He  cast  a 
single  swift  glance  at  his  wife  and  child  before  he 
turned  up  the  gas.  He  walked  to  the  windows  and 
to  the  doors.  He  examined  the  windows  as  care 
fully  as  the  fastenings  of  the  doors,  and  he  looked 


THE   END   OF   THE   GOLDEN   AGE  131 

into  the  closet.    Then,  he  shot  the  bolt  on  the  out 
side  door. 

"Josiah,"  said  Johnny's  mother,  "may  I  stay  with 
Ivan  to-night?  But  only  to-night?" 

"Come  into  the  other  room  a  few  minutes, 
Olga,"  said  his  father,  "I  want  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  you." 

But  it  was  not  a  little  talk.  The  murmur  of  their 
voices  came  through  the  heavy  closed  door  so  long 
that  Johnny-Ivan's  weariness  conquered  his  desire  to 
be  sure  his  mother  would  come  back  to  him,  and  he 
slept.  Morning  was  breaking  grayly  through  the  city 
smoke  when  his  heavy  eyelids  lifted,  and  his  mother, 
completely  dressed,  was  sitting  on  his  bed,  while  his 
father,  also  dressed,  his  hat  in  his  hands,  stood  by 
her  side.  And  his  father's  face  was  darkened  by  the 
blackest  frown  that  Johnny  had  ever  seen  on  any 
living  face.  He  tried  to  smooth  it  away  when  the 
child  shrank ;  but  Johnny  had  seen  it. 

His  mother  was  crying,  crying  so  that  her  tears 
wet  his  cheeks  and  her  beautiful  white  throat  trem 
bled.  She  caught  him  when  he  would  have  risen  and 
held  him  so  close  that  he  felt  a  pain  in  his  ribs,  but 
he  was  so  startled  and  wonder-stricken  that  it  was 
only  afterward  he  remembered  that  he  was  hurt. 
She  said  things  in  Russian,  loving  things  which  he 
understood,  because  she  had  said  them  before,  and 
dreadful  things  which  he  only  caught  in  snatches, 
about  some  one  who  was  ice  and  iron  and  cruel — 
crueler  than  death. 

"Cut  it  short,  Olga,"  said  his  father  coldly. 

His  mother  dropped  her  arms.    She  drew  a  long 


132  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

breath ;  she  looked  into  his  eyes ;  it  was  the  Princess 
Galitsuin,  whose  ancestors  had  been  princes  and 
brave  soldiers  for  centuries,  who  began  to  speak  very 
slowly,  using  the  language  which  her  son  was  surest 
to  understand.  Her  eyes  glowed  through  their  tears. 

"Ivan,  my  dear  little  son,"  she  began,  "I  have 
to  tell  you  something  hard,  and  you  must  bear  it 
bravely." 

"Yes,  mamma,"  said  Johnny-Ivan;  his  heart  was 
drumming  in  his  ears. 

"Listen,"  she  went  on,  "can  you  hear  me  when  I 
whisper — so?" 

"Yes,  mamma."  But  he  felt  cold. 

"I  have  to  save  Serge, — or  else  he  would  be 
hanged.  I  thought  I  could  take  you  with  me ;  but  I 
— I  can't.  Papa  will  take  you  home — Vanya,  if  you 
look  that  way"  (for  in  spite  of  him  his  lips  were 
quivering)  "I  can't  bear  it,  I  shall  break  down,  I 
shall  give  up  and  then  poor  Serge  will  be  hanged, 
and  all  my  life,  Ivan,  I  shall  be  a  wicked,  miserable 
woman — " 

He  made  his  stiff  lips  smile,  saying:  "I  won't 
look  any  bad  way,  mamma." 

"I  must  go,  Ivan." 

"But — but  you'll  come  back,  mamma?" 

"I'll  see  you  again,  Ivan,  be  sure  I'll  see  you  again. 
I  can't  tell  when ;  but  I  will.  I  surely  will.  And  you 
— ah,  thank  you,  my  brave  little  son !" 

It  was  only  that  Johnny-Ivan  had  made  his  chin 
stay  quiet  and  set  his  teeth. 

"Now,  my  darling,  you  must  promise  to  be  good, 
to  remember  what  I  have  taught  you,  never  to  be 


THE   END   OF   THE   GOLDEN   AGE  133 

cruel  to  those  who  are  weaker  or  poorer  or  more  un 
happy  than  you,  and  to  try  to  help  all  who  suffer. 
Will  you  remember,  my  Ivan?" 

He  nodded,  because  he  could  not  speak. 

"And  you  will  remember  me?" — she  was  not  the 
Princess  Galitsuin,  she  was  Johnny-Ivan's  own 
mamma  now,  and  he  was  kissing  her  wildly  and  tell 
ing  her  he  would,  he  would,  for  ever  and  for  ever. 

"You  will  make  the  child  sick," — the  voice 
dropped  into  the  tumult  of  the  two  excited  creatures' 
passion  of  love  and  despair  as  an  icicle  drops  into  a 
whirlpool. 

Johnny-Ivan  felt  himself  gently  laid  back  on  the 
pillows.  "It  won't  be  long.  Be  brave!  I'll  come 
back,"  mamma  had  whispered,  and  she  was  gone. 
Winslow  followed,  scowling  as  darkly  as  the  stern 
est  Puritan  of  his  mother's  stern  race. 

But  although  Johnny-Ivan  lay  awake  a  weary 
long  while,  until  the  sun  was  shining  brilliantly  on 
his  white  pillow,  mamma  did  not  come  again. 

At  last  he  rose  himself  and  went  to  the  other 
room,  calling  to  her  and  to  his  father,  asking  if  he 
might  get  up.  Neither  of  them  answered;  there 
came  in  their  stead  a  comely  and  cheerful  Irish 
woman,  who  said  she  was  the  assistant  housekeeper 
and  his  mamma  and  papa  were  gone  out  a  bit,  but 
she  would  dress  him,  which  she  did,  showing  a  really 
marvelous  knowledge  of  boys'  waists  and  buttons, 
and  being,  besides,  a  very  polite  person  who  ar 
ranged  one's  bath  and  respected  one's  feelings  by 
keeping  her  place  on  the  outside  while  one  bathed, 
merely  calling  directions  about  the  rough  towels. 


I34  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

She  described  a  great  many  delightful  and  un 
usual  things  about  to  happen  to  him,  a  cyclorama 
of  the  Chicago  fire  (a  cyclorama  was  ever  so  much 
finer  than  a  panorama),  and  a  drive,  and  stores  full 
of  beautiful  things ;  but  when  Johnny-Ivan  asked : 
"Will  mamma  stay  to  see  them,  too  ?"  she  shook  her 
head  compassionately.  "Well,  you  know  your 
mamma  will  be  going  to  your  poor  sick  aunt,  didn't 
you  know?"  said  she. 

"But  she'll  come  back — she'll  come  back  to  say 
good-by  to  me?"  urged  Johnny  in  a  suffocated  voice. 
The  kind  creature  said  afterward  that  she  fairly 
couldn't  stand  the  eyes  of  him. 

"I  know  she's  going  away,  she  told  me,"  cried 
Johnny,  with  a  forlorn  pride,  "but — she  isn't  said 
good-by.  Oh,  you'll  see!  she'll  come  back  and  say 
good-by." 

He  would  not  ask  questions  about  the  "sick  aunt," 
because  Johnny  was  already  become  a  miniature 
conspirator ;  mamma  was  fooling  them,  somehow,  so 
he  wouldn't  give  anything  away ;  but  surely,  surely, 
mamma  would  say  good-by. 

Yet  when  he  lifted  his  wistful  eyes  at  his  father's 
entrance,  a  little  later,  and  no  one  else  was  in  the 
doorway,  the  look  in  them  cut  Josiah  keenly  like  a 
knife. 

The  man  tried  to  speak  lightly :  "Mamma's  gone, 
son.  Aunt  Wanda — you  know  how  sick  Aunt 
Wanda's  been.  She — she  didn't  come  back  to  say 
good-by — she'd  have  missed  the  train.  Michael's 
gone  with  her  to  take  care  of  her,  and  Augustine, 
Mrs.  Winter's  maid's  gone,  too.  She's  glad  to  go 


THE   END   OF   THE   GOLDEN   AGE  135 

back  to  France.  She'll  take  very  good  care  of 
mamma." 

He  hadn't  the  nerve  to  look  at  the  child,  whom  he 
felt  he  was  striking  with  every  sentence ;  so  he  didn't 
see  the  sensitive  little  features  grow  white  and  the 
eyes  scared.  He  swallowed  a  lump  in  his  own  throat, 
nevertheless,  as  he  concluded :  "And  mamma  sends 
her  love  and  says  'Be  brave !'  and  I'm  going  to  write 
her  how — " 

But  he  was  shocked  by  an  exceeding  bitter  cry. 
"I  can't !  I  can't  be  brave  any  more !"  And  the  little 
boy  dashed  out  of  the  room. 

"Leave  him  to  me,  sir,"  said  the  housekeeper, 
with  a  woman's  instinctive  scorn  of  man's  inade 
quacy  in  an  emotional  crisis.  She  followed  too 
quickly  for  Johnny  to  shoot  the  door-bolt. 

He  broke  from  her  and  flung  himself  on  the  bed 
in  a  paroxysm  of  grief. 

"Oh,  your  poor  mamma !"  said  the  wise  woman ; 
"how  she'll  feel  when  your  papa  writes  the  way 
you've  cried !" 

Johnny  rolled  over  on  one  side. 

"I  ain't  crying!"  he  sobbed;  "I  ain't  going  to 
cry  at  all — I — I — just  got  a  stomach-ache.  Please 
lemme  'lone !" 

"You  sweet  little  brave  lamb !"  cried  the  woman, 
"ain't  there  nobody  you  got  to  home  to  buy  presents 
for?" 

"There's  Peggy,"  said  Johnny.  "Oh,  I  want  to 
see  Peggy !"  He  felt  the  sobs  choking  him  again ; 
but  it  was  not  only  mamma  urging  him  to  be  brave 
and  this  strange  woman  he  couldn't  cry  before, 


136  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

there  was  Peggy  who  missed  her  papa  but  never 
cried.  He  sat  up  in  the  bed  and  wiped  his  eyes  and 
submitted  to  having  the  woman  wash  his  face,  and 
after  a  while  papa  came  in  and  talked  about  presents, 
and  said  he  could  buy  presents  for  everybody  in 
Fairport  if  he  liked. 

"There's  a  lady  from  Fairport  here,  you  know/' 
papa  said.  "She's  here  with  her  sister,  who  lives 
here ;  her  sister's  going  to  send  her  carriage  for  us, 
and  Miss  Emma  Hopkins — that's  the  lady — is  going 
to  show  us  where  we  can  get  things." 

Johnny-Ivan  was  a  polite  child  and  he  tried  to 
be  good;  but  Emma  Hopkins  long  could  see,  too 
vividly  for  her  comfort,  the  wistful  little  face  which 
would  suddenly  cloud  in  the  midst  of  its  childish 
distraction.  He  remembered  all  the  maxims  of  be 
havior  in  which  he  had  been  trained ;  his  cap  was  in 
his  hand  as  soon  as  the  lady's  face  appeared  at  the 
carriage  window;  he  said,  "yes,  ma'am,"  and  "no, 
ma'am,"  punctiliously  (according  to  Hilma's  and 
Maum  Chloe's  code) ;  he  always  let  the  lady  go  first, 
when  she  wasn't  holding  his  hand,  and  he  didn't 
ask  any  questions ;  but  all  the  while  there  was  that 
dreadful,  queer  feeling  inside  him, — all  the  while 
he  knew  that  mamma  was  gone. 

Emma  Hopkins  was  alone.  It  had  not  occurred  to 
her  cheerful  Western  mind  to  bring  Mrs.  Raimund 
with  her,  because  she  might  be  going  shopping  with 
Mr.  Winslow.  She  showed  them  both  over  the  big, 
crowded,  gaily  decked  store,  and  she  guided  John 
ny's  choice  of  gifts.  Johnny  was  perfectly  docile; 
he  bought  the  cravats  for  Tim  and  Fritz,  the  beauti- 


THE   END   OF   THE   GOLDEN   AGE  137 

ful  embroidered  silk  fichus  for  Hilma,  the  waitress 
and  the  cook,  and  the  richly  flaming  scarf  for 
mammy,  at  Miss  Hopkins'  suggestion.  And  he 
agreed  that  the  white  gloves  would  be  nice  for  Aunt 
Rebecca  Winter;  only  when  Miss  Hopkins  took  a 
pretty  ribbon  from  the  counter,  saying,  "And  would 
this  do  for  Peggy  Rutherford?  You  would  like  to 
bring  her  something,  wouldn't  you?"  Johnny  shook 
his  head.  "I  picked  out  Peggy's  present/'  said  he, 
his  little  finger  indicating  an  exquisitely  painted 
black  lace  fan  on  the  opposite  counter.  "Peggy  loves 
lace  fans,  and  she  told  me  she  was  sure  going  to  have 
one  when  she  was  growed  up." 

"But  that  fan  is  twenty-five  dollars,  dear — " 

"Thirty-five,"  said  the  smiling  saleswoman  be 
hind  the  fans;  "it's  all  hand-painted  and  lovely 
work—" 

"We'll  take  it,"  said  Mr.  Winslow.  It  was  the 
single  sentence  he  had  uttered  since  they  came  into 
the  store;  and,  for  the  first  time,  Johnny-Ivan 
smiled. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  papa,"  he  cried;  almost  uncon 
sciously  he  shifted  his  clasp  from  Miss  Hopkins' 
hand  to  his  father's,  which  closed  over  his  gently. 

Johnny-Ivan  felt  better  after  the  presents  were 
bought.  He  had  not  been  able  even  to  eat  bread 
and  milk  for  his  breakfast  at  the  hotel,  but  he  plied  a 
nimble  fork  at  the  luncheon  at  Kinsley's,  and  he 
went  with  Mrs.  Raimund  and  Miss  Hopkins  and 
his  papa  to  the  cyclorama,  storing  every  detail  for 
Peggy's  use.  Now  and  again  the  old  horror  of 
loneliness  would  clutch  him ;  but  he  insisted  to  .him- 


138  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

self,  in  a  child's  flight  of  hope,  that  if  mamma  didn't 
come  back  pretty  soon  he  and  Peggy  would  go  after 
her ;  and,  meanwhile,  there  was  Peggy  waiting,  and 
wouldn't  she  be  glad  to  get  the  fan ! 

He  whipped  up  his  courage  in  this  fashion,  until 
his  father  and  he  were  alone  in  the  cars  going  home, 
when  he  had  to  remember  who  had  been  with  him 
before  in  the  cars.  It  grew  harder  to  keep  from  cry 
ing,  harder  every  minute.  His  papa  sat  on  the  seat 
beside  him,  looking  very  stern.  By-and-by,  maybe, 
he  would  begin  about  Serge.  Perhaps  he  would  be 
angry.  No,  he  wasn't  going  to  scold  him,  else  he 
would  never  have  given  him  the  fan.  Papa  was 
kind,  too.  Why  was  mamma  angry  with  papa?  He 
wanted  mamma  now,  this  minute;  he  wanted  to  go 
to  sleep  close  to  her.  Where  was  mamma  ? 

All  at  once  he  spoke.  "I'm  glad  mamma's  got 
Michael  to  take  care  of  her,"  he  cried. 

"She'll  be  all  right ;  don't  you  worry,"  said  Wins- 
low.  His  voice  sounded  careless.  Somehow,  Johnny 
felt  a  little  chilled,  and  more  lonesome  than  ever, 
for  papa  was  smiling.  The  poor  man  had  forced  a 
smile  to  reassure  the  boy.  When  Johnny  was  un 
dressed  at  night  (by  the  united  skill  of  the  porter 
and  his  father  and  at  the  expense  of  at  least  three 
vitally  important  buttons)  he  crawled  into  the  little 
berth,  so  heavy-hearted  that  even  his  presents,  which 
he  had  taken  to  bed  with  him  for  consolation, 
couldn't  help  him.  He  cried  himself  to  sleep,  while 
the  unconscious  father  smoked  in  the  next  car,  and 
the  porter,  appointed  guardian  pro  tempore,  dozed 
happily. 


THE   END    OF   THE   GOLDEN    AGE  ^9 

He  was  crying  as  his  father  came  into  the  state 
room,  but  he  simulated  slumber  so  successfully  that 
Winslow  suspected  nothing. 

Equally  ignorant  of  his  father's  feelings,  Johnny 
did  not  know  with  what  a  sorrowful  and  tender  face 
Josiah  Winslow  stood,  long  regarding  the  little 
form  only  indicated  by  the  heavy  blankets,  nor  how 
he  extended  his  hand  twice  as  if  to  touch  the  silky 
curls  on  the  pillow,  only  to  draw  it  back  lest  his 
caress  disturb  the  sleeper. 

Nor  did  Johnny-Ivan,  whose  pretense  of  sleep 
had  drifted  into  real  dreams,  know  how  long  the 
man  opposite  looked  wide-eyed  at  the  darkness  and 
the  bolted  door  and  his  sleeping  boy,  while  his 
thoughts  were  rummaging  the  years;  and  the  son 
never  heard  the  father  mutter,  at  last:  "Well, 
there's  Johnny.  I'll  save  Johnny  out  of  the  wreck." 

Johnny's  first  conscious  feeling,  in  the  morning, 
was  that  he  was  lost ;  his  next  was  his  father's  face. 
The  curtains  were  up  and  it  was  broad  daylight,  and 
papa  and  the  porter  were  bending  over  him.  The 
porter  was  holding  up  his  waist  and  talking. 

"I  done  look  ev'ywhar,  boss,  and  I  kain't  fin'  dem 
buttons,  nowhar.  Reckon  we-all  got  to  pin  'em." 

"But  won't  the  pins — ur — stick  into  him?"  This 
was  Johnny's  father. 

"Dey  mought,"  admitted  the  porter,  musing  deep 
ly;  "but  look-a-here !" — he  brightened — "say,  dars 
a  young  married  lady  in  number  six,  wid  a  baby. 
I'll  borry  some  pins  fr'm  her,  baby  pins ;  dey'll  sho' 
stick  an'  kain't  hu't." 

Thus,  not  nearly  so  neatly  or  so  quickly  as  usual, 


140 


THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 


but  very  firmly,  Johnny  was  attired,  and  only  one 
really  superfluous  waist,  which  buttoned  to  nothing 
and  naturally  was  not  missed,  escaped  the  rites  of 
the  toilet. 

At  Fairport  the  Winslow  carriage  was  waiting, 
driven  by  Tim  in  Michael's  beautiful  Russian  hat 
and  caftan,  but  with  his  own  honest  overalls  below. 
Mr.  Winslow's  mouth  widened  grimly,  though  he 
made  no  comment. 

"All  right  at  the  house?"  said  he. 

"Yes,  sor.   Splindid." 

"Did  they  get  Serge  Vassy  locked  up  all  right?" 
Mr.  Winslow  went  on. 

"They  did,  sor.  But  the  copper,  God  be  good  to 
him— he's  dead." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"They  was  talkin'  how  they'd  be  takin'  Serge 
Vassy  out  an'  hang  'im.  'Twas  a  big  crowd  at  the 
jail,  yesterday  night,  I'm  hearin' — " 

"Oh!   Weren't  you  there  to  see  for  yourself?" 

Tim  grinned  feebly,  and  found  something  wrong 
with  the  horses,  which  were  very  smoothly  trotting 
out  of  the  town. 

"Well,  sor,  'tis  best  not  to  be  to  sech  onlawful 
gatherin's.  But  annyway  they  was  makin'  a  power 
of  noise  outside;  some  dhrunk  and  all  howlin'. 
Most  loike  ut  scarit  the  cratur — they're  poor  timore- 
ous  craturs,  thim  nihilists,  at  bottom.  I'm  thinkin'. 
Annyway,  afore  they  cu'd  git  to  him,  he'd  taken 
some  stuff  he'd  wid  him  consaled,  and  'twas  dead's 
nails  he  was  leanin'  forninst  the  door." 

Mr.  Winslow  whistled.   "Just's  well,  maybe,"  he 


THE   END   OF  THE  GOLDEN   AGE  141 

said  finally;  "that  lets  me  out.  He'll  need  no  help 
now.  Tim,  how  is  the  new  colt?" 

"Couldn't  be  better,  sor."  The  talk  strayed  into 
Tim's  province,  the  stable. 

But  Johnny  stared  at  his  father.  This  cold 
strength  affected  the  warm-hearted,  impulsive  child 
like  an  incubus  of  terror;  how  could  he  escape  it? 
And  mamma  would  feel  so  bad  about  Serge!  Was 
mamma  going  to  Russia  to  beg  the  czar  to  save 
Serge  ?  or  was  it  true  she  was  going  to  Aunt  Wanda, 
who  had  been  ill  ? 

Johnny's  childish  wits  sank  bewildered  in  this 
maze ;  only  one  solid  hope  remained  amid  a  quaking 
bog  of  fear.  There  was  Peggy;  pretty  soon  he'd 
see  Peggy!  They  were  passing  the  Patch.  The 
smoke  curled  up  from  humble  chimneys;  the  chil 
dren  were  playing  under  the  blossoming  trees;  at 
some  of  the  windows  were  gray  heads.  And  his 
father  would  turn  all  these  poor  people  out  on  the 
world.  But — there  was  Peggy ! 

"Any  other  news?"  said  Mr.  Winslow. 

"Jest  the  Rootherfords,  sor.  You  was  hearin' 
'fore  you  wint  away  'bout  the  woord  come  how  the 
poor  doctor  was  tuk  bad  ?" 

"Yes,  the  telegram  came  in  the  morning.  Mrs. 
Winslow  told  me ;  they  were  hoping  for  better  news 
before  Mrs.  Rutherford  started.  She's  gone,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"They've  all  gone,  sor,  Mrs.  Rootherford  and  the 
nagur  woman  and  the  little  girl — an'  Mrs.  Winter, 
she  wint  to  St.  Louis  wid  'em.  They  wint  Wednes 
day  night,  sor." 


142 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 


"That's  too  bad !"  said  Mr.  Winslow  in  real  con 
cern  ;  "why,  Johnny  was  fetching  presents  home  to 
them.  I'm  sorry,  son." 

But  Johnny  hardly  heard  him.;  he  had  sunk  back 
in  the  carriage.  He  was  not  crying ;  he  didn't  want 
to  cry,  not  exactly;  but  his  wistful  eyes  looked  out 
on  a  wide  and  lonesome  world,  where  no  comfort 
was. 


BOOK  II 

IVAN 


CHAPTER  I 

STRANGERS   YET 

The  noon  train  from  Chicago  to  the  Pacific  on 
the  "Great  Rock  Island  Route"  was  an  accommoda 
tion  train.  Limited  trains  whirled  over  the  prairies 
before  the  day  broke ;  their  iron  chargers  rode 

"The  late  moon  out  of  the  skies 
And  their  hoofs  drummed  up  the  dawn ;" 

but  the  eleven-o'clock  local  linked  no  glittering 
Pullmans  by  dusty  vestibules ;  it  was  only  a  verte- 
brated  line  of  day  coaches  in  which  the  plain  people, 
with  their  babies  and  their  luncheons  and  their  an 
tique  hand-luggage,  could  swell  the  revenues  of  the 
railway  the  most  for  the  least  accommodation. 

Few  long-distance  travelers  took  the  local,  so  few 
that  the  ticket-seller  w7as  moved  to  look  a  second 
time  at  the  handsome  and  very  well  dressed  young 
man  who  requested  a  ticket  for  Fairport. 

"The  four  P.  M.  is  an  hour  and  a  half  quicker 
and  has  a  diner  on,"  said  he. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  young  man,  "but  it  is  a 
case  of  sickness ;  I  can't  wait." 

There  was  something  so  winning  in  the  young 
man's  voice  and  his  ready  gratitude  for  a  slight 
courtesy  that  the  busy  official  spared  time  for  a  civil 

'45 


146  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"That's  too  bad !"  and  a  glance  after  a  fine  straight 
back  as  it  disappeared  swiftly  in  the  crowd. 

"Say,"  said  the  chief  ticket-seller,  coming  over 
from  a  customer,  who  was  buying  a  ticket  to  Cali 
fornia  and  trying  to  obtain  unlimited  information 
about  the  Pacific  from  a  world-weary  man  who 
knew  nothing  beyond  Omaha, — "say,  I'll  bet  that 
was  young  Winslow ;  his  father's  taken  awfully  bad, 
and  we  were  to  stop  him  if  he  came  here  and  tell  him 
there's  a  special  waiting  for  him;  they  must  have 
missed  him,  somehow ;  Alan  G.  Raimund  was  down 
here,  himself,  about  it.  You  wait;  I'm  going  to 
catch  him !" 

But  the  hand  of  the  clock  touched  the  hour  and 
the  accommodation  was  slowly  swinging  out  of  the 
great  murky  station  as  the  official  reached  the  gate, 
while  on  a  platform,  smiling  at  a  man  who  had 
caught  his  arm  and  righted  him  from  his  leap,  stood 
the  tall,  slender,  dark  young  man  whom  the  agent 
sought.  All  the  men  about  the  gate  were  swayed 
by  a  ripple  of  gaiety. 

"  'Is  that  the  Fairport  train?'  he  says" — a  railway 
attache  seemed  to  be  telling  the  story — "  'you  can't 
get  it,  gate's  shut,'  says  I;  he  never  said  nothing, 
just  run  and  cleared  the  pickets  like  a  race  hoss,  and 
hopped  on  to  the  train  as  easy !" 

"Bag  and  all,"  another  man  chimed  in ;  "he  ain't 
feazed,  that  feller." 

Meanwhile,  unconscious  of  the  trail  of  admiration 
sputtering  after  him  like  sparks  after  a  rocket, 
young  John  Winslow,  who  had  beaten  the  college 
record  for  hurdling  at  Harvard,  was  selecting  the 
cleanest  of  the  spotted  red  plush  settees.  He  brushed 


STRANGERS   YET  147 

off  the  peanut  shells  from  his  choice  and,  sitting- 
down,  instantly  became  absorbed  in  thought.  The 
seat  in  front  was  occupied  by  the  young  fellow  who 
had  helped  him  on  the  platform,  a  short,  wiry, 
round-headed  and  deeply  freckled  young  man.  He 
leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  shading  his  face. 

But  he  roused  himself  to  greet  a  cheerful  brake- 
man,  who  showred  exceeding  joy  at  the  meeting  and 
wrung  the  young  man's  hand.  "I  ain't  seen  you 
since  the  Federation  election,"  cried  he ;  "well,  didn't 
us  boys  make  good?  Ain't  you  in,  all  O  K?" 

"Sure,"  responded  the  other;  "I  don't  mean  to 
forget  who  did  the  trick,  either,  you  bet." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Fairport." 

"Anything  wrong  there?" 

"I'm  going  to  see  my  mother;  she's  had  another 
stroke." 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  the  brakeman  softly,  "I 
didn't  know.  Say,  is  it  pretty  bad,  Billy?" 

"Couldn't  well  be  worse.  And  this  train  is 
slower'n  the  wrath  of  God."  He  ground  his  teeth 
in  the  irritation  of  his  anxiety. 

"That's  so,"  agreed  the  brakeman,  "but  it'll  git 
in  before  number  four.  But  it  is  awful,  traveling 
slow  at  such  a  time ;  you  know  when  Tim  got  his  leg 
mashed — Lord!  I  thought  I'd  never  git  to  him — 
it  was  on  this  same  old  caterpillar,  too.  Well,  I'll 
see  nobody  bothers  you." 

Johnny  Winslow  looked  at  the  man  whose  dismal 
errand  was  so  like  his  own.  The  brakeman  had 
called  him  Billy.  Billy  must  be  a  Fairport  boy,  or, 
at  least,  might  have  been  one,  since  his  mother  lived 


148  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

in  the  town ;  and  anything  connected  with  the  little 
city  was  of  interest  to  Johnny  now.  Billy  looked 
prosperous;  his  light  gray  suit  was  new;  his  linen 
was  very  clean;  it  was  also  gay,  being  striped  with 
red  and  blue ;  and  his  silk  cravat  was  of  a  rich,  shot 
scarlet.  On  the  seat  beside  him  rested  a  soft  felt 
hat  of  silver  gray.  He  wore  no  gloves;  his  hands 
were  freckled,  but  they  were  well-kept,  and  there 
was  a  diamond  ring  on  one  little  finger,  companion 
to  another  diamond  flashing  from  his  cravat. 

"Too  fine  for  a  workingman,  yet  he's  got  the  little 
ways  of  one,"  thought  Johnny;  "brushes  his  face 
with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and  his  walk's  like  one. 
Hands  too  white  for  machinist;  may  be  a  molder 
or  steel  man." 

Probably  Billy  would  have  wondered  at  Johnny's 
confident  opinions  about  mechanics.  The  truth  is, 
during  his  last  vacation  Johnny  had  tried  a  job  in 
a  foundry.  Here  he  had  perspired  happily  all  sum 
mer,  having  a  river  for  his  bath-tub  at  night,  and  a 
hot,  dusty  factory  for  his  days,  instead  of  taking  the 
North  Shore  of  Massachusetts  with  his  people,  and 
playing  polo  with  the  Myopia  Club. 

Therefore,  Johnny  knew  a  little  of  labor  and  felt 
the  responsibility  of  knowing  a  great  deal,  because 
his  knowledge  was  so  new  that  it  loomed  up  in  the 
forefront  of  his  imagination. 

Only  for  a  second,  however,  did  his  thoughts 
touch  his  companion;  there  was  too  much  of  grim 
and  anxious  importance  at  hand  for  consideration. 
As  he  sat,  his  dark  eyes,  which  had  not  quite  lost 
either  the  innocence  or  the  wistfulness  of  their  child 
ish  regard,  were  fixed  mechanically  on  the  drifting 


STRANGERS   YET  149 

landscape;  but  they  saw  neither  houses  nor  smiling 
harvest  fields.  His  thoughts  did  not  concentrate 
themselves  enough  to  distil  into  words;  rather  they 
were  a  dim  and  irrelevant  procession  of  scenes,  ris 
ing  like  smoke  wraiths  out  of  the  past.  He  saw  a  lit 
tle,  lonely  boy  playing  about  a  great  lonely  house, 
and  always,  all  day  long,  watching,  watching.  No 
one,  at  first,  knew  for  what  he  watched,  nor  why 
he  would  steal  down  to  a  corner  of  the  hillside 
whenever  he  surprised  an  unguarded  moment;  no 
one  knew  of  the  letters  with  the  foreign  stamp  which 
came  to  another  address  and  were  brought  to  this 
unsuspected  mail-box.  Dreary  years  of  a  child's  un- 
guessed  sorrowing  and  remembrance — how  bleak 
they  drifted  before  him!  Years  in  which  Johnny 
learned  to  hide  his  deepest  affections  and  his  keenest 
hopes ;  years  in  which  he  learned  to  meet  his  father 
with  a  cheerful  countenance  of  an  evening,  and 
never  to  ask  to  stay  up  later  than  the  legal  hour  of 
bedtime,  and  to  ride  his  pony  at  the  sober  paternal 
pace;  and  to  sit,  a  tiny,  unconsciously  pathetic  fig 
ure,  beside  Josiah's  broad  frame  in  the  buggy,  when 
the  latter  drove  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Josiah  never 
guessed  that  his  son  was  studying  him,  bewildered 
by  him,  yet  judging  him — this  little  docile  son. 

After  Mrs.  Burney,  who  was  an  unobtrusive 
comfort,  was  obliged  to  go  back  to  her  husband 
and  children,  there  came  a  far-away  cousin.  She 
was  a  prim  but  kindly  New  England  gentlewoman, 
who  looked  well  after  the  ways  of  her  household, 
and  Johnny  learned  to  love  her  in  a  genuine  if  tepid 
fashion.  With  her  came  her  son  to  study  for  the 
ministry  in  the  infant  theological  seminary,  just 


150  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

founded  in  Fairport.  The  cousin  was  a  widow ;  she 
was  greatly  respected  in  Fairport,  and  she  was  strict 
in  the  return  of  visits  and  the  payment  of  "obliga 
tions"  in  feasting.  She  was  a  cousin  on  Josiah  Wins- 
low's  mother's  side,  and  came  from  Salem.  It  was 
she  who  had  the  front  door  remodeled,  with  a  fan- 
shaped  glass  light  above  and  green  blinds  on  either 
side  the  brass  knocker.  She  told  Johnny-Ivan  that 
it  made  her  homesick  for  Salem,  yet  she  loved  it. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  the  child  surprised  her  by  say 
ing,  "I  know ;  I've  felt  that  way." 

"What  about,  Johnny?" 

"Oh,  about  the  summer-house,"  said  Johnny, 
whom  nobody  ever  called  Ivan  in  these  days.  The 
cousin  understood.  She  remembered  what  she  had 
been  told  of  the  Princess  Olga's  favorite  haunt.  She 
was  too  reticent  a  woman  to  express  the  sympathy 
really  in  her  heart;  but  she  patted  the  curly  head 
under  her  hand,  saying :  "Well,  Johnny,  we  know ; 
but  no  matter  how  much  we  miss  things  we  have  to 
try  to  be  cheerful  and  not  make  other  people 
trouble." 

Johnny-Ivan  swallowed  and  winked  his  eyes  be 
fore  he  answered,  properly,  "Yes,  ma'am." 

"And — I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  secret.  You're  go 
ing  to  Switzerland  with  papa  next  spring." 

"To  see  mamma?"  Johnny-Ivan  had  turned  sud 
denly  white  with  emotion.  The  cousin  nodded.  "But 
you  had  better  not  say  anything  about  it." 

"No,  ma'am,"  breathed  Johnny-Ivan  very  low. 
Suddenly  he  lifted  the  cousin's  thin,  blue-veined 
hand  and  kissed  it  in  the  foreign  manner  which  he 
had  disused  of  late.  "I  love  you !"  said  the  little  boy, 


STRANGERS   YET  151 

and  ran  swiftly  away.  When  he  reappeared  his  eye 
lids  were  red ;  but  his  eyes  were  shining  and  he  was 
tugging  a  great  basket  of  shavings.  He  had  whit 
tled  them  with  his  knife,  he  explained;  Hilma  let 
him.  "You  said  you  wished  you  had  some  shavings 
for  your  fire,"  said  Johnny;  "you  used  to  have 
shavings  in  Salem." 

He  dated  his  affection  for  the  New  Englander 
from  that  day,  while  as  for  Mrs.  Parker,  the  cousin, 
she  pronounced  him  "a  real  Winslow,  every  inch  of 
him" ;  nor  did  she  ever  swerve  from  her  belief. 

Then  came,  in  scattered  scenes,  the  visit  to 
Switzerland.  The  young  man  drew  his  breath  sharp 
ly  over  the  child's  remembered  ecstasy  of  meeting. 
How  lovely  his  mother  was !  How  exquisite !  What 
a  beautiful  life  she  led  among  the  exiles,  whom  she 
helped  and  comforted!  The  fortune  that  Aunt 
Wanda  had  left  her, — was  it  squandered  because  it 
went  to  a  most  noble  if  hopeless  dream  of  liberty 
and  human  brotherhood?  Yet — Johnny  scowled, 
because  he  found  in  his  own  mind  a  far-away  echo 
of  his  father's  petulance.  He  recalled,  almost  with 
sympathy,  a  single  speech  of  Winslow's. 

"Good  Heavens,  Olga !  let  me  take  care  of  your 
money;  it's  better  to  have  me  take  it  and  double  it, 
while  you  can  fool  away  the  income  on  these  ma 
niacs,  than  it  is  for  you  to  be  dumping  it  all  into 
their  insatiable  maw !  Quite  apart  from  the  object, 
it's  sickening  to  see  money  wasted  so !" 

Not  wasted,  perhaps,  since  so  large  a  sum  was 
needed  at  once ;  but  he  dimly  appreciated  his  father's 
position.  Even  as  a  youth  of  fourteen  he  had  begun 
to  see  the  futility  of  his  mother's  dreams.  During 


152  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

the  years  between  his  first  visit  and  that  time,  every 
year  (according  to  some  never-mentioned  but  sa 
credly-observed  pact  between  his  parents)  Johnny- 
Ivan  had  spent  two  months  with  his  mother.  Most 
of  the  time — not  all  of  it — his  father  was  an  inmate 
of  the  household,  an  unexacting  and  silent  spectator, 
observing  every  form  of  distant  courtesy  toward  his 
wife,  and  never  seeking  his  son's  company.  To-day, 
he  could  see  the  grave  unresponding  face  beside 
them  in  theater  boxes  or  fiacres  or  sitting  amid  other 
guests  at  the  table.  His  mother  was  always  the 
Princess  Olga  now, — she  was  never  addressed  more 
as  Madam  Winslow, — and  while  the  visit  lasted 
Johnny  was  with  her  all  the  time;  he  breakfasted 
and  had  luncheon  with  her,  and  he  always  came  in 
with  the  dessert  at  dinner,  where  he  made  acquaint 
ance  with  bearded,  feverish-eyed  dreamers  who  had 
less  harm  than  noise  in  them,  and  several  mild  and 
well-behaved  plotters,  to  whom  murder  was  merely 
a  distasteful  accessory.  They  found  him  the  same 
gentle,  polite  and  interested  child,  and  how  kind 
they  all  were  to  him !  His  fingers  touched  the  knife 
in  his  pocket;  it  was  a  gift  from  the  man  who  had 
carried  the  bomb  to  and  from  the  cheese  shop  that 
blood-stained  March  morning  when  Alexander  was 
slain.  One  of  his  rings  was  the  treasure  of  a  nihilist 
who  slew  a  whole  family  in  the  effort  to  quench  one 
hated  life.  He  still  owned  a  book  which  came  from 
one  conspirator,  and  a  paper-weight  from  another; 
and  the  most  ruthless  assassin  in  all  the  Russias  had 
spent  hours  whittling  the  little  boy  a  ship.  Toward 
Mr.  Winslow  their  attitude  was  different. 

"They   are   a   precious    lot   of   egotistical   cut- 


STRANGERS   YET  153 

throats/'  he  said  to  his  wife;  "I  hope  they  know  I 
think  so." 

"Do  not  fear,"  she  replied  calmly,  "they  are  not 
ignorant  of  your  good  opinion,  which  really  does 
not  require  writing  to  be  read !" 

Swiftly  came  other  scenes  to  the  sad  young  eyes 
at  the  window-pane,  his  mother's  agony  when  they 
must  part,  her  happiness  when  they  met,  only  two 
months  out  of  the  year;  but  Johnny-Ivan  lived  in 
those  two  months  all  the  months  between,  and  there 
were  always  the  letters ;  not  the  weekly  letter  which 
came  to  his  father  and  was  read  with  due  respect 
and  ceremony  to  him;  the  reading  always  prefaced 
with,  "Here  is  a  letter  from  mamma,"  as  if  a  mother 
who  never  came  to  her  husband's  home  and  saw  her 
child  only  two  months  in  the  year  were  the  normal 
parent.  Once  a  week — when  the  letter  was  read — 
Josiah  Winslow  would  mention  his  wife;  his  lips 
never  touched  her  name  at  any  other  time. 

The  year  Johnny-Ivan  was  fourteen  his  mother 
seemed  changed;  she  no  longer  lived  in  the  beauti 
ful  villa  which  had  been  hers,  but  in  a  small  house 
with  only  Michael  and  a  maid;  and  the  things  to 
eat  at  dinner  were  not  so  good ;  but  the  same  faces, 
lacking  but  a  few  to  whom  conspiracy  had  not  been 
kind,  were  over  the  samovar,  every  afternoon. 
Michael  and  his  father  had  frequent  conversations 
apart.  It  seemed  to  the  boy  that  gradually  Michael 
had  been  growing  more  friendly  to  his  father.  His 
mother  was  sadder,  but  no  less  beautiful,  and  she 
wore  the  same  charming  costumes.  Even  then  he 
guessed  the  reason; 

"Does  papa  give  you  your  clothes,  mamma?"  he 


154  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

asked  one  day.  Her  lip  curled.  "Ai  da!  I  should 
have  very  plain  clothes  if  he  didn't;  he  pays  for 
everything  now,  galubchik;  I  have  lost  a  great  deal 
of  my  money." 

"Well,  mamasa,"  said  Johnny-Ivan  with  the 
shrewd  little  frown  that  she  called  his  Winslow 
look,  "I  wouldn't  give  any  more  money  to  the  patri 
ots." 

"Why  not,  Vanya?" 

"Because,  mamma,  they  only  get  sent  to  Siberia; 
they  don't  hurt  the  government  a  bit !  They  talk  so 
loud  and  they  twirl  their  mustaches  and  drink  so 
many  glasses  of  champagne,  and  they  don't  do  any 
thing,  really!" 

"But,  Ivan,"  his  mother  returned,  "shall  we  let 
all  this  wickedness  go  on  and  the  people  be  more  and 
more  miserable?" 

"No,  maman,  give  them  money  to  come  to  Amer 
ica." 

"Are  they,  then,  so  happy  in  America?"  she 
replied. 

"They  can't  be  sent  to  Siberia,  in  America, 
maman!" 

"But  there  is  the  penitentiary  in  America;  and 
don't  you  remember  how  Serge  killed  himself  rather 
than  go  there  ?  I  went  to  Chicago  to  get  our  friends, 
there,  to  help  him.  Papa  had  promised  he  would 
help,  too.  Yet  Serge  killed  himself  rather  than  risk 
it.  Not  all  the  oppressors  are  in  Russia." 

"Well,  anyhow,  it's  easier  to  reform  things  in 
America,"  the  lad  persisted;  "that's  where  I'm  go 
ing  to  try." 

Sitting  by  the  car  window,  the  young  man  could 


STRANGERS   YET  155 

see  the  Swiss  mountains,  which  caught  his  eye  when 
ever  it  strayed  from  the  beautiful  pale  face  before 
him ;  their  opal  peaks  were  strangely  gilded  by  the 
glow  in  a  little  grate.  He  could  see  his  mother's  slim 
hands — which  wore  no  rings — clasped  over  her  knee 
as  she  talked.  That  last  year  his  mother  was 
changed — she  was  sadder,  gentler.  He  wished  that 
his  father  (who  spent  barely  a  week  with  them) 
had  stayed  longer.  When  they  came  to  part  it  was 
harder.  Her  last  miserable  smile  haunted  him  and 
he  felt  an  indefinable  yet  deepening  gloom.  The 
letters  were  fewer,  and  they  did  not,  as  usual,  re 
gain  the  note  of  hope,  for  her  temperament  had  as 
much  gift  for  joy  as  for  pain.  She  reproached  her 
self  with  failure.  She  wrote  to  the  boy  of  fourteen 
as  if  he  were  a  man : 

"What  is  the  Secret  of  Life?  Do  we  need  happi 
ness  ?  Here  is  a  strange  poem  by  one  of  your  Amer 
icans,  a  woman.  That  is  right.  Women  have  the 
crudest  burden  always,  for  they  can  never  forget 
pain  in  action.  This  poor  woman,  this  Emily  Dickin 
son,  I  know,  has  suffered.  Hear  her : 

"  The  soul  asks  pleasure,  first, 
And  then  excuse  from  pain, 
And  then  the  little  anodynes 
That  deaden  suffering. 

And  then — a  chance  to  sleep, 

And  then,  if  so  may  lie 
The  will  of  its  inquisitor, 

The  liberty  to  die!' 

"Do  you  not  find  that  dreary,  my  Ivan  ?  And  that 
last  image!  'The  will  of  its  inquisitor' — is  it  not 


156  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

terrible?  As  if  le  bon  Dieu  were  turning  the  rack 
handle.  You  are  so  young*  you  do  not  consider  the 
pervasiveness  of  misery.  Is  it  we,  ourselves,  that 
make  the  world  so  horrible  or — this  is  where  I  am 
affrighted — is  it  our  nature,  in  the  constitution  of 
the  world,  that  we  should  suffer?  Do  our  very 
struggles  of  frenzy  to  relieve  the  weight  that  is 
crushing  the  soul  out  of  a  race — do  they  but  press 
it  the  heavier  ?  Once  I  saw  a  horse  in  a  quicksand — 
Ai,  if  I  could  forget  it!  Every  struggle  made  him 
sink  deeper.  A  sight  like  that  makes  an  infidel  of 
one.  Yet  that  is  only  a  particle  in  the  vast  total  of 
horror.  How  can  any  one,  with  a  heart,  be  happy 
after  twenty-five !  But  there  have  come  moments  bet 
ter  than  happiness  to  me.  One  was  when  I  bought  the 
release  of  a  true  woman,  born  a  peasant  but  with  the 
soul  of  a  princess,  who  has  done  more  for  Russian 
womanhood  than  any  of  us ;  and  I  never  think  that 
because  of  my  help  all  she  did  after  her  escape  was 
made  possible,  without  an  exquisite  exaltation  of 
the  heart.  I  have  longed  inexpressibly  for  happiness ; 
I  have  felt  only  its  wing  brush  my  hot  cheek  as  it 
passed;  but  when  I  renounced  hope  for  self  and 
sought  only  to  gain  release  from  pain  for  others, 
then  only  did  I  find  a  deep  and  strange  peace.  Hap 
piness  is  for  the  child,  whatever  his  years,  for  some 
are  always  children ;  to  the  end,  I  think,  your  father, 
who  has  many,  many  noble  qualities,  will  yet  be  a 
determined  and  blinded  boy.  But  for  men  and 
women  who  have  lived,  peace  is  our  best. 

"You  will  not  understand  me,  my  poor  angel.  I 
forget  your  years;  it  is  because  in  some  ways  you 
are  older  than  I.  But  keep  this  poor  vague  letter ;  it 


STRANGERS   YET  157 

is  the  last  cry  of  my  soul.  Read  it  when  you  are 
older.  I  have  failed,  but  you  will  succeed.  You  must 
succeed.  Begin  where  I  surrendered;  do  not  seek 
the  happiness  of  the  senses  or  of  the  heart.  But  from 
the  beginning  take  the  vows  of  a  priest  of  humanity. 
There  is  so  great  a  multitude  of  downtrodden,  help 
less,  hopeless,  and,  therefore,  wicked  people;  there 
is  so  great  a  multitude  of  strong,  careless,  joyous 
souls  who  will  pass  to  their  own  images  of  happiness 
over  the  bodies  of  their  fellows  if  need  be,  just  as 
boys  will  in  games ;  but  the  pitiful,  the  unselfish,  are 
so  few.  Alas!  they  often  are  so  blind.  And  this  is 
the  most  terrible  of  mysteries;  we  not  only  harm 
through  cruelty  and  carelessness  and  ignorance ;  we 
harm  most  out  of  the  blind  folly  of  our  best  intents. 
"Would  it  not  seem  that  God  might  keep  watch 
above  his  own  that  they  should  not  destroy  where 
they  agonize  to  save !  But  He  does  not — always !  I 
suppose  we  blunder,  and  to  blunder  is  the  only  un 
pardonable  sin!  My  life  has  been  full  of  good  in 
tentions  and  blunders.  I  saw  too  straight — I  did 
not  look  to  either  side.  But  thou  wilt  be  different. 
I  no  longer  ask  thee  to  help  in  Russia.  Thou  art 
more  an  American  than  a  Russian.  But  help  those 
who  need  in  America,  my  dear  son,  whom  I  have 
loved  with  the  one  absorbing,  passionate  love  of  my 
life.  Do  not  grow  hard  with  success.  There  is  some 
thing  nobler  than  piling  up  gold.  There  is  some 
thing  finer  than  your  vulgar  American  power  in  pol 
itics.  Lead  the  working  people,  my  darling.  They 
need  a  leader.  Give  your  life  to  them.  Be  it  in 
America  or  Russia  the  end  will  be  the  same,  for  it  is 
true  what  the  American  poet  says : 


158  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"  Tor  humanity's  vast  frame 
Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibres  feels  the  gush  of  joy  or 

shame — 

In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race  all  the  rest  have  equal 
claim.' 

"There  is  one  thing  I  wish  to  say  to  you.  Be  a 
good  son.  I  have  not  been  all  a  wife  should  be  to 
your  father.  Pay  my  debts,  my  darling;  give  the 
consideration,  the  patience,  the  forbearance,  which 
I  did  not  give.  There  has  been  some  talk  in  Amer 
ica,  in  Fairport,  of  your  father's  obtaining  a  di 
vorce.  His  longer  absence  this  year,  his  staying  in 
the  hotel,  not  in  my  house, — these  things  would  in 
dicate  that  he  wishes  to  break  even  the  shadow  of 
a  tie  that  has  held  us  these  many  years.  And  I  feel 
that,  should  he  break  it  (a  thing  very  easy,  I  under 
stand,  according  to  your  laws),  he  will  wish  to  marry 
again.  I  even  surmise  who  is  the  lady.  You  will 
think  it  strange  that  for  these  many  years  I,  who 
never  willingly  sought  your  father's  presence,  should 
still  be  horribly  jealous  of  this  other.  I  am,  I  con 
fess  it  to  you.  She  is  what  the  world  admires  as  a 
good  woman.  Nothing  would  induce  her  to  do  any 
thing  which  the  law  and  the  church  do  not  sanction. 
Yet  I  believe  she  loves  your  father  and  will  marry 
him,  so  soon  as  he  is  free.  I  know  that  she  is  often 
at  the  house.  I  have  asked  you  about  her,  and  the 
pain  it  gave  me  to  hear  your  artless  confession  of 
liking  her  shames  me.  For  I  know  that  she  will  be 
kind  to  you ;  I  know  she  will  give  your  father  all  the 
comfort  which  he  needs  and  a  companionship  which 
I'aimable  Madam  Parker  can  not.  Still  this  excru 
ciating  jealousy  rends  my  poor  heart.  Little  son,  it 


STRANGERS   YET  159 

is  not  so  much  for  thy  father,  it  is  for  thee.  When 
she  becomes  his  wife — and  my  health  is  not  strong ; 
she  may  not  need  the  courts  to  help  free  him — then 
see  to  it  she  is  not  thy  mother.  Only  I  am  that. 
Ah,  God,  how  I  have  loved  thee !  And  it  were  such 
a  comfort  when  I  go  into  the  dark,  to  know  I  shall 
not  be  all  dead ;  I  shall  still  live  in  thy  heart.  And 
there  is  no  one  besides  you.  These  are  such  foolish 
wild  words  and  I  began  to  write  them,  meaning 
them  to  be  calm  and  forgiving  and  patient — Nu! 
these  qualities  are  too  foreign  to  me  even  to  be 
feigned.  Yet  I  know  there  is  much  in  this  woman 
to  which  I  don't  do  justice.  Soit.  I  can  not  help  it. 
Be  good  to  her,  but  do  not  love  her.  I  will  send 
this,  now,  that  it  may  catch  the  steamer,  and  to 
morrow,  again,  I  will  write." 

But  there  was  never  another  letter,  and  this  John 
ny-Ivan  read  only  after  he  came  back  to  America, 
having  seen  his  mother  laid  in  a  foreign  grave.  It 
must  have  been  the  day  after  its  writing  that 
Michael's  cable  was  received.  The  princess  was  ill, 
dying, — would  not  his  mercy,  the  barin,  send  Ivan- 
Josiahvitch  ? 

Johnny-Ivan  did  not  see  the  message;  but  it  is 
questionable  if  he  would  have  suffered  more  if  he 
had  known  what  he  guessed.  His  father  was  very 
gentle  to  him.  Johnny's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  re 
membering  how  gentle  and  how  silent. 

It  was  a  ghastly  journey  and  too  late.  The  prin 
cess  may  not  have  realized  the  seriousness  of  her 
condition — she  was  a  skeptic  about  doctors;  and  it 
is  likely  that  an  unknown  affection  of  the  heart  com 
plicated  the  mortal  disease  which  she  had  suspected. 


160  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

It  saved  her  months  of  pain,  but  it  took  her  away 
from  her  son  without  a  parting  message.  A  few 
hours  of  unconsciousness  slipped  into  the  everlast 
ing  release. 

The  train  groaned  and  panted  over  open  trestle- 
work  ;  the  sky  had  darkened.  Johnny-Ivan  was  won 
dering  how  he  lived  through  the  year  after  his 
mother's  death.  There  are  some  losses  which  are 
more  than  wounds;  they  are  mutilations.  The  soul 
is  never  the  same  afterward.  He  put  his  hand  un 
consciously  against  his  breast.  That  last  letter  was 
there, — he  had  worn  it  all  these  years.  For  a  long 
time  he  read  it  almost  daily.  One  day  he  read  it  with 
a  convulsed  face  and  streaming  eyes,  for  on  that  day 
his  father  had  told  him  that  he  was  to  marry  Miss 
Emma  Hopkins.  Not  a  word  did  Johnny  say;  he 
simply  turned  pale  and  walked  away.  For  the  first 
time,  now  on  his  way  to  his  father's  death-bed,  he 
was  reproaching  himself,  not  for  the  discourtesy  of 
his  behavior — for  that  he  had  apologized  stiffly  the 
same  morning — but  for  its  cruelty. 

But  during  a  long  time  he  was  too  occupied  with 
his  own  torture  to  think  of  anything  else.  He  was 
in  a  frenzy  of  resentment  and  grief.  He  despised 
himself  because  of  his  former  weak  liking  for  the 
cheerful,  ingenious,  sympathetic  "Aunt  Emma/' 
who  used  to  tell  stories  of  the  Winslows  and  Endi- 
cotts  and  play  Indian  massacres  in  his  childhood 
when  he  was  so  lonesome,  and  who  was  grand  about 
algebra  in  later  days.  The  half-obliterated  memory 
of  his  mother's  words  to  Aunty  Winter  at  the  Art 
Museum  was  burnished  into  scorching  brightness 


STRANGERS   YET  161 

by  his  knowledge,  as  brass  is  burnished  by  an  acid. 
All  the  jealous  suspicion  of  the  letter,  which  he  had 
glossed  over  as  impossible,  was  justified.  With  the 
hot  unreason  of  youth  he  accused  Emma  Hopkins 
(never  more  Aunt  Emma,  he  swore)  of  being  a 
heartless  and  calculating 'schemer.  All  along,  yes, 
all  along,  she  had  meant  to  marry  his  father  and 
live  at  Overlook;  she  might,  he  could  not  help  it; 
but  she  should  never  rule  over  him !  His  head  was 
throbbing  with  plans  to  escape,  to  run  away,  to 
reach  his  mother's  friends,  plans  which  he  was  quite 
reckless  enough  to  have  tried  to  put  into  some  sort 
of  action  had  he  not  found  a  wise  counselor  in  Mrs. 
Winter.  She  was  become  a  great  comfort  to  him 
since  his  mother's  death.  He  knew  that  she  loved 
his  mother.  Three  times  she  had  made  a  special 
pilgrimage  to  Switzerland  to  visit  the  princess. 
Johnny  always  had  a  little  moving  of  the  heart  when 
he  looked  at  the  picture  of  his  mother  hanging  above 
the  solitaire  table  in  Mrs.  Winter's  own  little  sitting- 
room.  She  had  mourned  the  Princess  Olga's  death 
with  a  depth  of  grief  which  astonished  herself.  She 
said  as  much  to  Emma  Hopkins. 

"I  thought,"  she  said,  "when  my  husband  died,  I 
used  up  my  capacity  of  misery.  It  was  some  com 
pensation  that  if  I  could  never  feel  any  keen  happi 
ness  again,  neither  should  I  ever  suffer  so  I  should 
hate  the  sunshine.  But  I  have  been  cruelly  lonesome 
since  Olga  died.  And  she  had  really  learned  to  love 
me;  I  had  hopes  I  could  help  her."  To  Johnny  she 
said:  "Your  mother  had  a  beautiful  nature;  I  shall 
miss  her  as  long  as  I  live." 

So  it  was  to  Mrs.  Winter  that  Johnny,  grown  a 


162  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

tall  lad  of  fifteen,  brought  his  news.  Again,  he  could 
see  her  narrowing  her  handsome  eyes  and  nodding 
her  handsome  gray  head  over  it. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Well,  Johnny,  you  know  Mrs. 
Parker  has  to  go  to  Keokuk,  where  Endicott  has  a 
call;  your  father  would  be  very  lonely.  He  was 
talking  of  your  going  to  school." 

"I  want  to  go  to  school,"  said  Johnny.  "I  want 
you  to  ask  father,  will  you?" 

Mrs.  Winter  eyed  him  a  moment,  thoughtfully. 

"I  shan't  ever  like  Miss  Hopkins,"  said  Johnny; 
"if  I  stay  I'll  get  so  unhappy  I'll  run  away.  I  mean 
it,  Aunty  Winter." 

"I  see  you  mean  it ;  and  of  course  you're  unhappy, 
Johnny — " 

"Won't  you  go  on  calling  me  Jo'nivan?  I  want 
to  have  you." 

"And  I  dare  say  you  are  cooking  up  wild  schemes 
of  running  away." 

"I  don't  want  to  run  away, — not  if  I  can  help  it." 

"Your  father  is  uncommonly  fond  of  you,  Jo'n 
ivan." 

"I  am  fond  of  him,  but  I  shall  never  obey  that 
lady." 

Mrs.  Winter  considered  before  she  spoke:  "I'll 
make  a  bargain  with  you,  Jo'nivan.  Be  kind  and 
respectful  to  your  father  and  polite  to  Miss  Hop 
kins.  She  is  a  clever  woman.  She  won't  ask  any 
thing  more  of  you — now.  And  keep  your  bad  feel 
ings  to  yourself.  That's  your  part.  On  my  part,  I 
agree  to  advise  your  father  to  let  you  go  to  school." 

The  young  man  at  the  window  was  sighing.  He 
felt  a  queer  distant  pity  for  the  lonely  lad  fighting 


STRANGERS   YET  163 

his  way  through  the  hazing  and  fagging  at  a  mili 
tary  school.  Then  he  smiled  faintly.  The  mild,  slim 
young  Westerner  had  organized  the  new  scholars. 
By  means  of  a  secret  society,  at  first  covertly,  finally 
openly,  he  had  defied  the  hazers.  There  had  been  a 
bloody  battle  wherein  clothes  were  torn  and  heads 
were  broken  and  the  new  society  held  its  own  until 
the  bugle  for  drill  stopped  the  fray.  The  subsequent 
assault  with  intent  to  "bed-slat"  the  chief  offender 
against  school  traditions  ended  Johnny's  career,  for 
he  repelled  boarders  with  giant  firecrackers,  smug 
gled  to  him  by  Michael,  and  set  the  building  afire. 
Johnny's  father  was  summoned.  He  came,  said  very 
little  to  Johnny,  took  long  walks  with  the  Head  of 
the  school;  finally  he  announced  to  Johnny  that  he 
could  come  home  with  him. 

"I'd  rather  stay,"  murmured  Johnny.  He  felt  a 
silly,  childish  longing  to  sit  close  to  his  father,  to 
cry  and  confess  how  lonely  and  miserable  he  had 
been;  but  he  choked  it  down,  as  unworthy  of  the 
chief  of  the  K.  T.  F. 

"You  can't,"  said  his  father,  "don't  you  know  you 
could  be  arrested  for  setting  the  house  afire?  Be 
sides,  Kane, — isn't  that  the  captain's  name? — he 
might  arrest  you  for  that  big  burn  he  has  where  the 
cracker  burned  right  through  his  shirt.  It  is  almost 
assault  with  intent  to  commit  murder !" 

"He  came  at  me  with  a  baseball  bat;  there  were 
six  of  them — " 

"Yes,  I  know.  It  was  a  dirty  business.  But  you 
shouldn't  try  any  anarchist  tricks  with  dynamite. 
That's  un-American — " 

"I  tried  to  get  a  knucks  or  a  pistol,  sir,  but  I 


164  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

couldn't  buy  one  in  town,  and  they  were  coming, 
and  if  they'd  finished  me,  they'd  gone  on  and  chased 
every  one  of  the  society — " 

"I  see,"  groaned  Winslow,  "other  folks'  messes,  as 
usual !  Well,  never  mind ;  the  upshot  is,  Johnny,  I've 
agreed  to  take  you  out  of  school.  You're  not  ex 
pelled;  there's  no  record  against  you.  Kane  grad 
uates  this  year,  anyhow ;  he'll  be  allowed  to  gradu 
ate,  but  he'll  lose  his  bars.  The  other  fellows  will 
lose  their  rank,  too,  and  the  sixth  and  fifth  forms 
have  agreed,  if  things  are  dropped  and  your  so 
ciety  is  disbanded,  they  will  see  that  hazing  and  fag 
ging  are  stopped.  On  the  whole,  it  is  a  pretty  fair 
deal." 

"Then  I've  stopped  the  hazing?"  cried  Johnny; 
"they  said  there  wasn't  a  boy  or  a  teacher  could  do 
it!" 

"Yes,  young  crowing  cock,  you've  stopped  it ;  but 
I  advise  you  to  let  reform  alone  in  your  next  school. 
I  think  you'd  better  make  aunty  a  visit — for  a  few 
weeks.  Then  you  can  come  home.  No  need  of  talk 
ing  of  a  thing  of  this  sort,  and  next  September  we'll 
try  Phillips  Exeter.  You  need  a  little  Eastern  con 
servatism." 

"Papa,"  said  Johnny,  unconsciously  reverting  to 
his  childish  address — he  had  called  his  father  father, 
ever  since  the  announcement  of  his  intent  to  marry, 
— "papa,  I'd  like  to  stay  at  aunty's  all  summer." 

To-day,  with  its  background  of  waving  corn, 
Johnny-Ivan  could  see  his  father's  face ;  why  hadn't 
he  understood,  then,  that  he  was  hurting  him  ?  Why 
couldn't  he  have  been  touched  then  by  his  smothered 
sigh  and  the  undertone  in  his  words :  "Well,  son,  if 


STRANGERS   YET  165 

you  wish  it  so  much ;  but  I  had  been  thinking  a  good 
deal  of  what  we'd  do  this  summer.  Your  mother 
was  planning  a  good  many  things." 

Johnny-Ivan  remembered :  he  knew  why  he  had 
not  been  touched :  it  was  that  last  sentence ;  well,  he 
was  glad  he  had  had  the  grace  to  keep  from  flashing 
out:  "My  mother's  dead,  I  don't  want  anything 
from  Mrs.  Winslow."  He  shut  his  teeth  tight — 
sulky  little  dog  that  he  was — and  after  a  considera 
ble  pause  his  father  had  begun  about  the  details  of 
the  journey. 

He  regretted  his  coldness  now  it  was  too  late. 
He  was  in  a  mood  to  regret.  All  his  past  was  col 
ored  with  his  doubt  of  self.  Even  his  conduct  to  his 
stepmother  did  not  seem  to  him  so  unassailable  as 
usual.  He  had  been  scrupulously  courteous  to  her. 
He  could  not  reproach  himself  with  rebuffing  ad 
vances  ;  his  attitude  had  been  one  to  prevent  any  ad 
vances  being  made.  Every  week  when  he  wrote  to 
his  father  he  added  as  the  last  sentence,  "I  hope 
Mrs.  Winslow  is  well."  She  began  as  Mrs.  Wins- 
low  and  she  never  came  to  be  anything  else. 

His  ingenuity  (and  Johnny  was  of  an  ex 
treme  and  versatile  ingeniousness)  spent  itself 
during  term-time  at  school  in  building  water 
proof  excuses  for  absence  from  home  through  va 
cation.  Once  he  went  to  a  room-mate's;  once  he 
joined  a  bicycle  party,  for  the  bicycle  was  then 
in  the  height  of  its  first  fascination.  He  was  most 
duteous  to  all  his  eastern  kindred  as  well  as  to 
his  aunt,  whose  husband  had  come  to  the  com 
mand  of  an  eastern  arsenal.  He  needed  a  tutor  for 
his  Harvard  "finals,"  although  his  "prelims"  had 


166  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

been  passed  without  any  such  aid.  By  such  con 
trivances  he  had  shortened  marvelously  his  periods 
of  home-coming.  Now  he  wondered  with  a  pricking 
pain  whether  his  father  had  not  missed  him.  But 
then,  he  was  accustomed  to  consider  his  father  as 
wrapped  up  in  his  colossal  business,  to  the  exclusion 
of  everything,  save  possibly  his  wife.  He  supposed 
his  father  had  been  sorry  when  the  baby  girl  born 
to  him  died  within  the  year.  Johnny  had  seen  the 
little  thing  only  during  a  single  vacation,  but  a 
strange  feeling  tugged  at  his  heart  when  it  first  held 
out  its  tiny  arms  to  him. 

"Why,  she  likes  you,  Johnny !"  cried  Mrs.  Wins- 
low,  "take  her,  won't  you?"  For  once  he  did  not 
secretly  resent  her  words.  He  accepted  the  funny 
little  bundle  with  a  secret  tenderness. 

"Hullo,  little  sister!"  he  whispered.  No  one  (he 
was  sure)  knew  how  many  times  during  his  brief 
visit  he  had  stolen  to  the  nursery  to  chaff  and  romp 
with  the  "Bunch,"  as  he  called  her.  She  used  to 
jump  with  joy  at  his  approach.  Once,  when  she  had 
a  passing  illness,  she  went  to  him  from  the  nurse. 
He  was  queerly  moved,  and  when  no  one  was  look 
ing  (he  thought)  he  bent  his  black  head  over  the 
pale  golden  curls  and  kissed  the  round  little  cheek. 
It  quite  startled  him  that  Mrs.  Winslow  should  come 
in,  directly  afterward.  Before  Mrs.  Winslow,  he 
maintained  the  proper  nonchalance  pertaining  to  an 
Exeter  Senior  who  was  the  head  of  the  track  team. 
He  called  Baby  Nelly  "Miss  Winslow,"  and  whis 
tled  school  songs  at  her,  nor  ever  by  any  chance  laid 
a  finger  on  her  soft  little  cheek,  before  witnesses. 
Yet  when  the  telegram  came  that  the  baby  was  dead, 


STRANGERS   YET  167 

he  took  the  first  train  home,  and  cried  softly  behind 
his  curtains,  in  the  night,  because  he  should  never 
feel  those  clinging  little  arms  again. 

But  he  was  too  young  to  master  the  embarrass 
ment  of  sympathy,  and  the  never-healed  wound  in 
his  heart  for  his  mother  was  reopened  by  the  atmos 
phere  of  loss  and  death.  He  wandered  desolately 
amid  the  scenes  which  they  had  known  together,  and 
his  tears  flowed  anew  in  a  lonely  sorrow,  hard 
ening  instead  of  softening  the  heart  over  which 
they  flowed.  No  one  missed  her  but  himself ;  but  he 
should  miss  her  for  ever.  Dimly  he  understood  that 
their  common  grief  would  draw  husband  and  wife 
closer  together.  Even  in  the  darkened  room  with 
the  strains  of  the  hymn  on  the  air  and  the  wee 
white  coffin  so  near,  he  was  passionately  pleading 
his  mother's  cause,  passionately  resenting  her 
wrongs.  Poor  lad!  he  did  not  comprehend  that  his 
resentment  was  the  effort  of  an  obstinately  faithful 
nature  to  repel  its  own  compassion,  because  com 
passion  seemed  to  him  disloyalty. 

The  morning  of  his  departure  for  school  he  rode 
out  to  the  cemetery,  to  the  baby's  grave.  He  looked 
down  on  the  flower-heaped  mound  for  a  few  sec 
onds,  then  laid  a  cluster  of  violets  and  milk-white 
iron-weed  amid  the  hot-house  lilies  and  smilax.  He 
had  gathered  them  on  the  knoll  by  the  summer- 
house.  They  were  the  flowers  his  mother  used  to 
love. 

"My  mother  sends  them  to  you,  little  sister,"  he 
said.  He  who  had  lost  his  childish  faith  and  who 
wondered  drearily  whether  he  could  ever  behold  his 
mother  again,  unconsciously  used  the  loving  fictions 


1 68  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

which  comfort  the  sore-hearted.  And  then  the  tall 
lad  rested  his  head  against  the  shaft  above  his  un 
known  grandmother's  grave,  while  his  tears  flowed 
out  of  a  loneliness  more  bitter  than  grief.  That 
evening,  as  he  was  saying  good-by,  he  felt  a  move 
ment  of  pity  toward  the  baby's  mother.  She  kissed 
him — for  the  first  time  in  years — saying :  "Johnny, 
I  shall  never  forget  how  good  it  was  of  you  to  come. 
You  were  always  good  to  her  and  she  always 
loved — "  But  even  her  self-control,  which  had  been 
marvelous  all  along,  could  not  finish  the  sentence; 
she  turned  away. 

"Where's  Johnny's  dress-suit-case?  Is  it  on  the 
carriage  ?"  called  Winslow. 

"Yes,  it's  there,"  said  Johnny.  So  he  did  not  need 
to  use  any  reply — save  a  "Thank  you!"  which  the 
habit  of  politeness  forced  out  of  him. 

Perhaps  she  was  not  feigning,  perhaps  she  was  sin 
cere  ;  good  heavens !  it  would  be  too  ghastly  to  sus 
pect  feigning  at  that  moment.  And  to  do  her  jus 
tice,  she  was  as  straight  as  a  string;  with  lots  of 
sand,  too,  and  a  sense  of  humor  which  not  all 
women  have.  He  could  have  been  good  friends  with 
his  stepmother  if  he  only  were  free  to  be.  But  he 
wasn't  free,  and  he  shut  the  door  of  his  heart,  which 
had  been  ajar  for  a  second,  with  a  resolute  bang. 
Yet  she  was  assuredly  a  devoted  wife  to  his  father. 
With  that,  his  thoughts  shifted  again  as  thoughts 
will  shift.  They  left  his  stepmother  to  go  to  his 
father.  He  wished  he  hadn't  been — well,  so  argu 
mentative  with  his  father. 

"I'm  afraid  I  came  awfully  near  being  bump 
tious,"  he  repented,  with  a  kind  of  discouraged  dis- 


STRANGERS   YET  169 

gust.  "I'll  never  learn  to  hold  my  opinions  and  my 
tongue  at  the  same  time,  I  guess." 

He  went  back  to  those  long  Sundays  at  Man 
chester  last  year,  and  blended  with  the  church-bells 
and  the  moan  of  the  surf  were  his  father's  testy  criti 
cisms  of  "socialist  gas-bags"  and  flings  at  Tolstoi's 
"inflammatory  non-resistance." 

At  this  time  Johnny  was  studying  political  econ 
omy,  and  waving  the  Tolstoi  torch  with  ardor.  He 
was  on  fire  with  a  passion  of  pity  for  suffering,  and 
his  young  brain  boiled  with  visions.  The  insatiable 
logic  of  his  mother's  race  had  begun  to  offer  its 
word.  Argument  was  fuel  to  flame.  Consideration 
of  impossibility,  the  magnitude  of  obstacles  to  his 
Utopia  only  stirred  up  the  courage  of  youth.  How 
many  nights  filled  with  wrangling  could  he  remem 
ber  in  that  loveliest  of  spots,  where  one  ought  to 
have  sighed  Symons'  delicate  verses  and  dreamed : 

"I  have  grown  tired  of  sorrow  and  human  tears; 
Life  is  a  dream  in  the  night,  a  fear  among  fears; 
A  naked  runner  lost  in  a  storm  of  spears. 


I  would  wash  the  dust  of  the  world  in  a  soft  green  flood; 
Here,  between  sea  and  sea,  in  the  fairy  wood, 
I  have  found  a  delicate,  wave-green  solitude. 

Here,  in  the  fairy  wood,  between  sea  and  sea, 

I  have  heard  the  song  of  a  fairy  bird  in  a  tree, 

And  the  peace  that  is  not  in  the  world  has  flown  to  me." 


But  the  fairy  bird  which  sang  to  Johnny  Wins- 
low  sang  of  conflict,  not  of  peace.   His  soul  was  not 


I  ;o  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

weary — whatever  he  deemed  it — it  was  throbbing 
tumultuously ;  he  was  awakening  to  the  glory  of  am 
bition;  his  imagination  and  his  soul  were  kindling, 
at  once.  Had  you  known  him,  as  a  few,  a  very  few 
Harvard  men  knew  him,  he  might  have  shown  you 
a  portfolio  most  daintily  carved  with  Russian  de 
vices,  and  reverently  lifted  from  it  two  letters. 

"One  was  to  my  mother  from  Tolstoi;  one  is  to 
me,"  he  might  say.  Ah !  which  of  us  has  not  had 
our  day  of  hero  worship,  that  golden  time  when  the 
young  soul  prostrates  itself  in  the  purest  of  pas 
sions  !  Johnny  had  fixed  his  heart  high.  Some  day 
he  would  do  something  worthy  of  repetition  to  his 
mother's  noble  friend;  then  he  would  write  to  him. 
A  hundred  times  he  composed  the  exordium  to  that 
letter  which  held  all  his  dreams.  The  recital  itself 
would  take  little  time  because  Johnny  expected  his 
deeds  to  be  in  all  the  papers.  Many  a  night  had  he 
smiled  and  stared  at  the  moonlit  ceiling,  while  his 
hopes  and  schemes  chased  sleep  out  of  the  window. 
And  many  a  morning  the  pale  arrows  of  the  sun 
had  pierced  the  artificial  radiance  of  his  lighted 
room,  to  find  two  or  three  eager  faces  still  burning 
with  the  zeal  of  their  themes  while  the  overflowing 
Asvhenbechcr  revealed  the  length  of  their  vigil. 

Unfortunately,  Josiah  Winslow  had  missed  many 
things  in  not  going  to  the  paternal  university  be 
sides  a  knowledge  of  dead  languages ;  he  had  never 
known  the  dear  delight  of  hero  worship  and  litera 
ture  combined.  He  had  his  own  heroes ;  but  they  did 
not  adapt  themselves  to  fervid  eulogy  over  steins 
and  tobacco;  he  had  never  known  the  exercises  of 
soul  which  eat  up  the  evening  hours  as  an  ocean 


STRANGERS   YET  171 

steamer  eats  coal.  Indeed,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  ever 
sat  up — unless  to  work — ^beyond  ten  o'clock,  until 
after  he  had  made  a  fortune.  He  was  ignorant,  to  a 
degree,  of  the  need  of  safety  valves  for  the  thunder 
ous  steam  of  youth.  Any  steam  in  him — and  there 
was  plenty — had  gone  to  keep  the  kitchen  stove 
burning  with  all  the  holes  filled.  He  had  crowded 
his  laboring  days  so  full  that  sleep  took  him  when 
ever  he  sat  down  to  breathe.  When  he  stopped  to 
think  it  was  how  to  get  a  new  carpet,  so  his  mother 
would  not  have  to  patch  the  old  one  with  her  own 
delicate  hands,  or  how  he  should  pay  for  his  sister's 
books,  or  buy  flour  cheaply  by  the  barrel,  instead  of 
easily  and  extravagantly  by  the  pail;  or  how  the 
great  sum  suddenly  owing  the  doctor  should  be  paid 
by  instalments.  His  youth  had  walked  heavily  under 
a  sordid  burden  of  care.  His  early  manhood  had 
been  absorbed  in  effort  like  that  of  the  swimmer 
in  a  storm  who  gains  a  boat  and  must  steer  it  to  the 
shore.  Then  he  was  winning  the  mastery  of  riches 
and  the  consciousness  of  power  and  command. 
There  was  not  such  a  gulf — could  either  of  them 
have  come  to  the  measuring  of  it — between  Johnny, 
exulting  over  his  leadership  of  a  handful  of  school 
boys,  and  Josiah,  walking  through  the  foundry  of 
the  plow  factory  the  day  he  was  made  foreman,  and 
was  nineteen  years  old.  But  Johnny  was  too  young 
to  see  any  likeness,  and  Josiah  did  not  come  near 
enough  to  his  son  to  perceive  any  reflection  of  his 
own  traits.  He  was  always  dreading  to  bump 
against  some  stubborn  heritage  from  Olga. 

Furthermore,  at  this  time,  the  rugged  captain  of 
industry  was  in  stern  straits  of  his  own.    He  had 


I  72 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 


begun  to  suspect  that  the  hand  of  death  was  upon 
him  and  the  days  of  his  mastership  were  numbered. 
His  first  sensation  was  a  kind  of  dull  anger.  He 
found  himself  struggling  with  a  besetment  of  irrita 
bility  which,  oftener  than  not,  would  blaze  out  at  his 
son :  "Johnny,  does  Harvard  turn  out  many  such  hot 
headed  and  well-meaning  idiots  as  you?"  he  would 
growl.  "I  tell  you  all  your  schemes  come  to,  is  de 
vices  to  compel  the  thrifty  and  saving  and  industri 
ous  to  pack  the  lazy  scalawags  on  their  shoulders! 
You'll  never  make  the  poor  prosperous  by  curtail 
ing  production.  We  can't  all  get  rich  by  stealing 
from  each  other!  Don't  you  think  it!  .  .  . 
We  may  be  obliged  to  take  care  of  the  weak  and  the 
damn  fools;  but  we  aren't  obliged  to  take  care  of 
them  their  way!  .  .  .  The  best  government  is 
the  one  that  puts  the  smart  men  at  the  top  and  makes 
the  fools  work  their  passage !  .  .  .  Maybe  I'm 
not  to  blame  I  was  born  blind;  but  I  needn't  brag 
about  it  or  expect  to  boss." 

Thus  would  Josiah  wave — or  rather  kick — 
Johnny's  arguments  aside. 

"Maybe  I'm  not  logical,"  he  would  snort.  "I  never 
knew  logic  useful  anywhere  that  horse  sense  couldn't 
do  the  job  a  heap  quicker !  I've  had  enough  wits 
to  leave  you  a  rich  man — if  I  dare!"  His  voice 
changed  over  the  last  word.  He  sighed  heavily. 
"The  influence  of  the  mother  to  the  third  and  fourth 
generation!"  he  muttered.  "A  man  doesn't  know 
the  extent  of  his  folly  when  he  marries  against  his 
judgment."  Johnny,  pale  with  resentment,  had  held 
his  tongue  by  sheer  will  and  been  glad  to  see  Mrs. 
Winslow's  substantial  figure  in  the  doorway.  It 


STRANGERS   YET  173 

was  not  his  first  relief  of  the  kind.  She  often  inter 
rupted  hot  disputes ;  she  often  held  both  sides  away 
from  dangerous  subjects.  Perhaps  he  owed  her  grat 
itude  as  well  as  respect,  Johnny  admitted  to  him 
self  now;  certainly  all  through  the  summer  she 
had  been  anxious.  He  could  pity  her  to-day,  and  it 
was  with  a  weary  sigh  that  he  turned  away  from 
the  window,  as  if  he  could  push  his  memories  from 
him  with  the  action. 


CHAPTER  II 

FATHER   AND   SON 

The  brakeman  was  back  again.  Johnny  found 
himself  idly  looking  up  at  his  good-natured  young 
face. 

"Say,  are  you  Mr.  John  G.  C.  Winslow?"  said 
the  brakeman,  putting  a  slip  of  paper  into  Johnny's 
hand.  "Special  waiting  at  Joliet." 

The  despatch  was  signed  "Alan  G.  Raimund," 
and  it  simply  announced  that  a  special  would  be  in 
readiness ;  but  it  struck  cojd  on  Johnny's  heart,  for 
he  argued,  instantly,  that  had  there  been  any  change 
for  the  better  in  his  father's  condition,  it  would  have 
been  mentioned  by  his  stepmother's  brother-in- 
law;  nor  would  there  be  this  ominous  speeding  of 
his  journey.  He  was  settling  back  into  his  seat  and 
his  dreary  reverie,  when  his  eye  lighted  on  the  man 
in  front.  With  sudden  thought  of  his  kindred  er 
rand,  Johnny  touched  his  shoulder.  The  face  turned 
on  him  struck  some  obscure  nerve  of  memory. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  Fairport  to  a  sick  mother?" 
said  Johnny. 

"Yes."   ' 

"I  have  a  special  waiting  for  me  at  Joliet;  will 
you  come  with  me  ?  It  may  be  only  an  engine,  but  I 
dare  say  you  can  get  on,  too." 

174 


FATHER  AND   SON 


175 


So  it  happened  that,  at  Joliet,  the  freckled  young 
man  took  a  seat  diagonally  opposite  Johnny,  in  the 
car  attached  to  the  engine  which  was  in  waiting. 

"Ain't  you  young  Winslow?"  said  he;  and  on 
Johnny's  assent:  "I  expect  you're  going  on  to  see 
your  father?"  Johnny  nodded. 

"I  was  awful  sorry  to  hear  he  was  so  sick.  But 
you  can't  tell;  often  things  will  take  a  turn,  even 
when  the  doctors  have  given  a  man  up.  And  they 
would  send  for  you  as  soon  as  there  was  any  dan- 
ger." 

"That's  what  I  have  been  telling  myself,"  said 
Johnny.  His  eyes  went  gratefully  toward  the  sensi 
ble  young  man  who  recognized  facts  under  the  sur 
face. 

"You  look  some  like  you  looked  when  you  were  a 
boy,"  continued  his  new  acquaintance.  "I  suppose 
you  don't  remember  the  last  time  we  talked  together 
— up  back  of  your  house  ?  I  came  for  milk,  and  you 
gave  me  a  five-dollar  gold  piece.  My  name  is  Wil 
liam  Bates." 

"I  do  remember," — Johnny  felt  a  flicker  of  inter 
est.  "Did  you  run  away?" 

"Sure — my  mother  and  I.  Went  to  Chicago 
where  I've  got  on  fairly  well,  and  I  am  glad  of  this 
chance  to  pay  you  back  that  V — " 

"I  dare  say  you  have  paid  it  more  than  once  al 
ready,  by  giving  it  to  some  one  that  needed  it." 

"That  doesn't  count.  Here  it  is."  He  tendered 
Johnny  the  money. 

"No,"  said  Johnny;  "I  gave  it,  I  didn't  lend  it. 
Don't  owe  me  money,  owe  me  a  kindness."  The 
young  man  replaced  the  bank-note  rather  reluc- 


1 76  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

tantly,  more  as  if  he  did  not  know  how  to  insist 
courteously  than  as  if  he  were  convinced. 

"I've  always  felt  that  way,"  he  explained,  "but 
I'd  sorter  like  to  do  something  more  direct.  I  did 
smooth  the  boys  over  when  the  molders  were  getting 
giddy  and  wanting  to  go  on  a  strike  at  the  Old  Col 
ony  Plow  Works.  I  guess  your  father's  told  you  of 
that.  It  was  a  year  ago  last  spring.  Your  father  is 
all  right.  I  wish  there  was  more  like  him;  though 
some  folks  would  say  I  might  be  out  of  a  job  if  there 
was." 

"What  is  your  job  ?"  asked  Johnny  politely. 

"Business  Agent  of  Chicago  Local  25  of  the 
Holders'  Union.  I  was  a  molder — started  there,  but 
I  found  out  pretty  soon  that  it  would  take  a  devil  of 
a  time  to  make  a  fortune  on  two-sixty  a  day;  so  I 
went  in  as  an  organizer.  The  boys  rather  liked  my 
style,  and  I  found  I  could  work  with  my  head  as 
well  as  my  fists ;  so  I'm  what  you  folks  call  one  of 
those  damned  walking  delegates." 

Johnny  did  not  show  the  expected  shock.  "Tell 
me,"  said  he,  "is  this  union  movement  going  on  in 
creasing,  or  will  the  men  fall  out?" 

"It's  going  on  all  right,"  said  Billy,  "going  to 
grow  like  a  prairie  fire.  And  there's  something 
else  will  grow — the  men  that  run  'em.  There's  jest 
as  much  politics  and  jest  as  much  need  of  smartness 
in  unions  as  anywhere." 

"Just  as  much,"  agreed  Johnny,  "and  more  need 
for  honesty.  It  seems  to  me  about  the  meanest  man 
•going  is  a  labor  leader  who  sells  out  his  union." 

The  walking  delegate  looked  at  him  keenly  as  if 
suspicious  of  masked  sarcasm,  but  he  nodded,  "Oh, 


FATHER  AND   SON  177 

I'm  straight  all  right.  There's  a  general  impression 
we  fellers  cook  up  most  of  the  trouble;  well,  we 
don't.  More  times  than  you'd  guess,  we're  as  mod 
erate  as  we  can  be  and  hold  our  jobs." 

"Who  does  make  the  trouble,  then?" 

"The  radicals  and  the  kids.  The  radicals  always 
want  the  earth  and  the  kids  are  always  ready  for  a 
row  just  for  the  fun  of  it!  They've  no  wives  or 
homes  or  responsibilities  and  a  strike's  just  a  bully 
vacation." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  kids?" 

"Oh,  young  larks  between  eighteen  and  twenty. 
'Twasn't  for  them  we  could  hold  the  others  down; 
but  they're  just  meat  for  the  devil." 

"You're  not  so  very  much  older  than  twenty  your 
self,  are  you  ?"  said  Johnny  dryly. 

"Well,  I'm  not  superannuated,  that's  a  fact;  but 
I've  always  had  responsibilities,  and  I've  thought 
the  whole  business  out.  I've  never  swiped  a  dollar  I 
had  trusted  to  me,  and  I've  never  given  my  word 
that  I  haven't  kept  it.  Say,  a  reputation  for  always 
delivering  the  goods  without  writing  is  worth 
money,  ain't  it  ?  Another  thing,  I  made  up  my  mind 
not  to  be  a  fool.  I  don't  drink.  I  let  the  women 
alone.  I  never  bet  a  nickel.  And  I  mean  to  get  on. 
I  mean  to  have  a  nice  house  with  a  piazza  and  a 
bath-room  with  a  white  china  bath-tub,  and  a  horse 
and  buggy  and  keep  a  hired  girl  for — "  He  stopped 
short  with  a  sudden  quiver  of  his  face.  "Say,  how 
does  a  feller  f orgit  for  a  minute  ?  I  don't  care  much 
whether  I  have  a  house  or  anything,  now  she  can't 
get  the  good  of  it !" 

Johnny  nodded  a  quick  comprehension,  and  of- 


178  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

fered  a  cigar  in  mute  sympathy  which  the  other 
acknowledged  with  a  nod.  The  conversation  flagged 
after  this,  while  the  two  men  made  pretense  to  read 
their  papers.  But  a  kind  of  comradeship  had  grown 
up  between  them.  They  talked  at  intervals.  Billy 
told  of  his  boyish  struggles  and  his  privations;  his 
mother's  joyous  pride  over  his  least  little  advance 
ment  ;  her  nursing  him  through  a  fever ;  her  happi 
ness  to  go  back  to  Fairport. 

"I  believe  what  she's  always  hoped  for  was  that 
I'd  make  enough  to  git  back  to  Fairport  and  be  an 
alderman  and  hire  a  buggy  to  go  riding,  at  Luke 
Darrell's,  every  Sunday." 

"Ah,  Darrell!  is  he  still  keeping  his  stable?" 

"Bigger  and  better  than  ever.  Say,  he's  a  dry 
one,  ain't  he  ?  His  last  cheerful  greeting  to  me  was : 
'Well,  Billy,  I  hear  you're  getting  on  fine ;  you'll  die 
a  rich  man  if  you  don't  get  into  the  penitentiary !' ' 

"Not  very  complimentary." 

"Oh,  he's  got  to  have  his  little  joke;  but  he  let 
me  have  a  hack  on  credit  when  my  mother  was  sick, 
once.  He's  white." 

Within  the  last  hour  of  the  journey  both  men  be 
came  restless.  Johnny  felt  the  same  gnawing  impa 
tience  that  he  read  in  Bates'  abrupt  movements.  As 
the  familiar  landmarks  swung  into  sight,  the  hills 
and  the  river  and  the  low  sky-lines  of  the  three 
towns,  Johnny  suddenly  found  himself  trembling; 
he  looked  over  at  Bates ;  the  paper  before  the  dele 
gate's  eyes  was  rustling. 

"It's  hell,  ain't  it?"  said  Billy. 

"Yes,"  said  Johnny. 

"I  believe  there  ain't  a  mean  trick  I  served  her 


FATHER   AND   SON  179 

or  a  sassy  word  I  gave  her  that  I  ain't  been  going 
over  this  damn  ride.  Looks  like  if  she'd  jest  say 
she'd  forgive — though  I  know  she  has — I'd  feel 
better !" 

"Yes/'  said  Johnny. 

"We're  on  the  bridge,"  said  Billy.  "You've  done 
me  another  awful  good  turn  and  I  ain't  likely  to  for- 
git  it." 

"We're  nearly  there/'  said  Johnny.  In  an  agita 
tion  beyond  his  disguising  he  flung  himself  out  of 
his  seat.  He  strode  to  the  platform.  He  looked  on 
the  mighty  river,  silver-gray  and  almost  waveless 
in  the  calm  of  summer  noon,  and  a  depression,  heavy 
and  subtile  like  the  mist  from  its  waters,  penetrated 
his  being.  He  could  not  see  Overlook.  It  was  hid 
den  amid  the  foliage  shrouding  the  far-away  hills. 
All  the  lonely  grief  of  his  childhood,  all  the  conflict 
and  disillusion  of  his  youth,  surged  over  his  head 
as  the  waves  surge  over  a  defeated  and  sinking 
swimmer.  His  mother  was  dead,  his  father  was  lost 
and  estranged,  and  now  the  grimmest  of  separations 
would  make  the  estrangement  final.  The  prosper 
ous,  trim  little  cities  gave  him  the  weary  feeling  one 
receives  from  the  beauty  of  a  cemetery;  sun-dap 
pled  fields  and  waving  woodlands  were  verily  the 
tomb  of  all  his  boyish  hopes  and  loves.  Then  Johnny 
smiled  faintly ;  no,  not  all, — little  Peggy  remained ! 
He  had  seen  her  a  few  times  since  that  dismal  day 
when  he  ran  away  with  his  mother,  on  their  futile 
flight  into  the  world.  More  than  once  she  had  vis 
ited  Mrs.  Winter;  she  was  grown  into  a  handsome 
girl  with  a  train  of  admirers.  Only  a  few  months 
ago  he  had  heard  of  her  mother's  death.  Why 


i8o  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

should  he  be  reminded  of  Peggy  now,  and  with  such 
a  curious  glow  of  comfort?  The  image  of  her  helped 
to  steady  him  through  the  difficult  moment  when  he 
felt  the  jarring  stop  of  the  train,  and  he  was  back 
again  in  the  old  town. 

His  first  sweeping  glance  about  from  the  plat 
form  showed  him  his  father's  carriage.  His  eye 
brought  back  a  blurred  vision  of  clean-limbed,  fiery 
horses  tossing  their  proud  heads,  a  high,  light 
wagon,  and  a  smart  coachman  in  whipcord.  He 
wished  that  Michael  had  come  to  meet  him;  but  at 
that  instant  he  heard  his  name.  Looking  down, 
he  saw  a  slim  girl  in  black,  with  shining  hair. 

"Peggy !"  he  cried. 

"I  came/'  she  said.  "Michael  sprained  his  knee, 
and  Aunt  Emma  couldn't  bear  that  some  one 
shouldn't  come." 

Johnny's  throat  failed  him;  but  his  eyes  interro 
gated  her. 

"There  is  a  little  change  for  the  better.  The  doc 
tors  hope  he  will  live  through  the  night." 

"Thank  you."  Johnny  said  no  more,  but  his  eyes 
went  after  his  companion,  who  was  searching  the 
street  for  a  cab,  of  which  there  seemed  no  sign  at 
that  unusual  hour.  "He  has  come  on  a  like  errand," 
Johnny  explained  in  an  undertone,  and  afterward 
he  smiled  bitterly  to  remember  how  a  faint  quality 
of  apology  was  in  it,  the  self-same  quality  that  had 
been  so  often  in  his  tone  to  Peggy  as  a  child,  when 
he  excused  his  undue  softness  of  heart.  "I  wonder, 
could  I  take  him  with  us  ?" 

Peggy  glanced  sidewise  at  the  young  man's  silver- 
gray  hat  which  rested  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and 


FATHER  AND   SON  181 

her  features  almost  imperceptibly  stiffened;  but  the 
eyes  which  turned  upon  Johnny  were  kind  as  well  as 
beautiful. 

"I  will  drive  him  wherever  he  wishes  to  go,"  said 
she.  "I  can  go  more  quickly,  and  you  don't  want  to 
lose  a  minute — " 

"You  drive?" 

"Yes,  I  came  in  the  runabout."  She  waved  her 
hand  at  a  big  bay  pirouetting  and  jerking  away  from 
a  porter  holding  him  gingerly  at  arm's  length. 

"Then  perhaps  you  will  drive  me,  and  let  the 
man  take  Mr.  Bates,"  said  Johnny. 

She  hesitated  almost  imperceptibly;  but  he  per 
ceived  it  and  divined  the  cause :  it  was  kind  and  like 
Peggy  to  meet  him  thus,  to  break  that  first  desolate 
moment  of  a  home-coming  so  unlike  his  others,  and 
then  to  mean  to  slip  away,  leaving  him  unrestrained 
by  any  demands  of  courtesy.  She  couldn't  know 
how  she,  of  all  the  world,  was  the  one  he  wanted. 

"I  don't  in  the  least  mind,"  she  said. 

"But  I  do,"  said  he,  approaching  Bates. 

"There's  another  favor,"  cried  Bates  in  answer  to 
his  offer;  "depend  on  it,  Mr.  Winslow,  I  ain't  go 
ing  to  forget." 

"I  hope  she'll  be  better  than  you  fear,"  said 
Johnny.  Their  eyes  met;  there  was  not  time  for 
their  hands,  and  with  a  run  Johnny  sprang  into  the 
runabout,  calling  his  message  to  the  coachman  as 
Peggy  drove  him  away.  The  big  mare's  great  flanks 
went  out  like  the  bolt  from  a  bow. 

"Is  that  horse  of  yours  safe,  Miss  Rutherford?" 
said  Johnny. 

"Oh,  I  can  drive  anything  on  four  feet,"  she  re- 


182  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

plied  carelessly;  "but  Kentucky  Babe's  gentle 
enough.  That  man  fretted  her." 

They  were  going  like  the  wind.  A  policeman  lifted 
his  arm,  but  recognized  the  driver,  glanced  at 
Johnny  and  let  it  fall. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  I  shan't  run  over  any  children," 
said  Peggy.  "I'm  keeping  a  sharp  lookout." 

"You're  a  dandy  whip;  still,  on  account  of  the 
children,  we  might  ease  up  a  little  here." 

Peggy  made  no  answer  except  to  slacken  their 
pace.  She  let  him  know  somehow  without  telling 
that  she  did  not  expect  talk  from  him.  His  few 
questions  about  his  father's  state  she  answered  with 
concise  intelligence  more  bracing  than  sympathy. 
He  felt  grateful  to  her,  afresh. 

To  steady  his  mind  he  forced  himself  to  look  at 
the  streets.  They  were  changed  and  grown  metro 
politan  since  that  other  dreary  day  of  arrival  when 
his  father  had  borne  the  little  fugitive  back  from 
Chicago,  although  the  line  of  shops  and  houses  still 
seemed  quaintly  low.  There  were  many  little  varia 
tions,  many  signs  of  the  march  of  wealth.  The  court 
house  lifted  gray  stone  walls  and  towers  amid  a  vel 
vet  lawn  and  formal  beds  of  geraniums  and  parti 
colored  bavadias  and  lavender  and  pink  hydrangeas 
in  shining  green  tubs.  In  place  of  the  old  grove 
there  was  a  careful  rank  of  elms,  giving  ample  arm 
room.  A  park  looked  down  on  him  from  the  terrace 
below  his  home,  and  the  hills  which  had  embowered 
modest  cottages  were  cleared  to  reveal  glimpses  of 
new  colonial  mansions  or  gaily  stained  villas.  By 
some  obscure  law  of  association  the  change  de 
pressed  him;  he  had  not  expected  to  find  the  old 


FATHER  AND   SON  183 

town;  indeed,  most  of  these  very  changes  he  had 
seen  before;  yet  he  was  disappointed  that  the  old 
landmarks  were  gone. 

The  Patch  was  covered  with  little  houses  so  fresh 
with  paint  that  they  seemed  of  yesterday.  He  re 
membered  how  the  lonely  child  used  to  dread  the 
scenes  of  spoliation  and  dispossession  which  he  im 
agined;  how  he  had  stolen  down  to  the  Patch,  to 
find  empty  houses  and  busy  carpenters,  and  could 
get  no  easing  of  his  pain,  since  loyalty  to  his  father 
(which  he  never  violated  save  for  his  mother)  for 
bade  him  to  inquire  into  the  former's  crimes.  For 
years  he  had  brooded  over  possible  tragedies.  He 
wondered  where  the  outcasts  had  hidden  their  heads 
and  who  would  give  them  a  crust;  nor  did  he  ever 
discover  how  readily  they  had  taken  the  peace  of 
fering  given  them  and  scattered  into  the  country, 
where  most  of  them  were  thriving,  or  into  other 
streets,  where  the  plague  of  their  presence,  being 
scattered,  was  felt  less.  Now,  recalling  the  squalor 
of  the  past  and  contrasting  it  with  the  present  scene, 
he  excused  his  father.  Perhaps  his  father  had  al 
ways  meant  well;  surely  he  ought  to  have  believed 
in  him,  he,  his  only  son. 

One  by  one  he  numbered  over  the  times  of  their 
better  acquaintance,  the  gifts  which  had  been  show 
ered  on  him,  the  lavish  generosity  shown  his  college 
days.  How  often  had  the  two  seemed  only  a  hand's 
breadth,  a  hair's  breadth  from  each  other!  yet,  al 
ways,  fate  or  the  ineffaceable  antagonism  of  tem 
perament  had  intervened.  Had  his  mother  lived 
there  might  have  been  moments  when  he  would 
have  sided  with  his  father  against  her;  dimly,  in 


184  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

this  solemn  hour,  he  realized  that  she  was  not  always 
just,  not  always  merciful;  alive,  the  battle  between 
the  two  was  more  equal  than  appeared;  but  dead, 
every  tender  and  loyal  impulse  of  the  boy  who  had 
adored  her  rallied  to  her  side.  His  imagination 
helped  her,  with  none  of  her  living  frailties  to  inter 
fere,  as  the  frailties  of  our  dearest  will  interfere 
with  our  ideals  of  them.  Dead  she  won,  where  liv 
ing  she  might  have  lost;  when  she  was  borne  from 
the  field  her  husband  found  her  memory  stronger 
than  her  living  presence ;  he  was  worsted  by  a  shade. 
The  fancy  flitted  for  a  second  through  Johnny's 
brain :  Would  his  father,  too,  be  the  victor  when  he 
seemed  to  have  lost  the  fight  ? 

The  horse's  head  had  turned.  Johnny  came  out 
of  a  fantastic  and  somber  reverie  to  feel  the  thicker 
beating  of  his  heart  and  the  chill  of  the  Overlook 
trees.  No  sign  of  tension  showed  on  the  grounds; 
the  lawn-mower  buzzed  along  the  terraces,  and  a 
man  with  a  hand-mower  supplemented  it  in  corners 
and  near  trees,  pausing  at  intervals  to  wipe  his  brows 
with  a  red  and  yellow  handkerchief.  Johnny  felt  the 
unreasonable  resentment  of  sorrow  at  the  unmoved 
world,  at  the  inevitable  progress  of  the  routine  of 
life.  The  smoke  was  drifting  from  the  kitchen  chim 
neys  ;  a  grocer's  cart  rattled  down  the  hill.  But  as  he 
passed  the  mowers,  there  was  a  simple  sign  that  the 
observers  of  the  tragedy  were  not  unmoved.  The 
men  took  off  their  hats  to  them,  gravely;  even  the 
grocer's  boy  gave  a  motion  toward  his  head. 

Johnny  lifted  his  own  hat.  With  the  quick  re 
sponse  of  his  nature,  he  felt  the  tacit  sympathy.  He 
glanced  at  Peggy. 


FATHER   AND    SON  185 

"You  always  were  brave,  Johnny,"  said  she;  her 
own  lips  were  held  tightly. 

"All  right,  Peggy,"  said  he. 

As  they  reached  the  house  the  atmosphere 
changed.  There  was  no  one  in  the  garden  or  on  the 
lawns.  And  the  strange  maid,  who  opened  the  door, 
stepped  with  elaborate  softness  and  gloom.  A  man 
took  Johnny's  luggage  silently,  with  a  respectful 
bow,  before  he  went  to  the  horse;  but  behind  him 
hobbled  painfully  a  homespun  figure  that  he  knew, 
and  the  rugged  face  with  the  tears  streaming  down 
its  cheeks  he  had  loved  all  his  life.  Michael  caught 
him  in  his  arms,  with  a  sob. 

"He  would  come;  I  told  him  not  to,"  explained 
the  maid  in  the  lowest  tones  that  escape  a  whisper ; 
they  vibrated  with  the  righteous  indignation  of  a 
person  who  knew  the  proprieties  and  observed  them ; 
"but  he  promised  he'd  be  quiet — I  hope  you  will, 
Michael." 

All  the  while  she  was  steering  both  of  them  into 
the  room  which  had  been  Josiah  Winslow's  den. 
"Mrs.  Winslow  will  be  down  directly,"  she  con 
cluded,  having  shut  the  door  and  bestowed  one 
more  eloquent  glance  of  contempt  on  Michael, 
weeping  aloud  in  mingled  Russian  and  English. 
Johnny  looked  about  the  room.  He  recalled  his 
father's  pleasure  in  it;  now  he  would  never  see  it 
again.  But  Johnny  did  not  weep,  and  he  wondered 
why  Michael  must  be  so  moved,  when  he  was  calm. 
When  a  dress  rustled  he  turned  composed  and 
melancholy  eyes  to  the  doorway.  He  had  been 
troubled  by  vague  visions  of  Mrs.  Winslow  in  some 
strange  new  attitude  of  distempered  excitement ;  yet 


1 86  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

he  knew  that  this  quiet,  almost  stolid  face,  which 
his  eyes  found  for  one  glance  and  left  precipitately 
and  feared  to  find  again,  was  the  face  of  his  assured 
expectation.  The  controlled,  emotionless  voice  was 
the  voice  he  had  known  that  he  should  hear.  But 
he  had  been  afraid  that  he  should  have  to  kiss  her, 
at  least  to  shake  her  hand ;  it  was  inhuman  how  much 
he  had  been  afraid  of  this.  And,  really,  she  did 
not  expect  him  to  touch  her.  She  said :  "Can  you 
come  up  stairs  now?"  Nothing  else.  He  felt  grate 
ful  to  her  as  he  had  felt  grateful  to  Peggy. 

A  young*  woman  in  a  white  cap  and  apron  and  a 
blue  and  white  striped  cotton  gown  opened  the  door 
for  them,  while  she  herself  passed  into  the  hall. 
Johnny  caught  a  murmur  that  she  would  be  outside. 
Then  he  stopped  on  the  threshold  to  get  his  breath, 
which  was  coming  very  quick,  as  if  he  had  been  run 
ning. 

"Here's  Johnny,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow. 

"Hullo,  Johnny;  you  made  good  time!" 

There  was  something  in  his  eyes,  and  it  was 
harder  than  ever  to  breathe.  His  father's  face  wore 
a  strange  waxen  pallor,  and  the  eyes  had  grown 
bigger;  but  it  was  his  father's  old  face,  and  it  was 
his  father's  old  voice  that  hailed  him. 

He  got  his  own  voice  and  he  said  something — 
about  the  special ;  he  was  glad  to  find  it. 

"Ought  to  have  told  you  before — she  wanted  me 
to ;  but  the  blamed  thing  has  been  going  on  so  long 
I  got  off  my  guard,  and  then  it  came  all  of  a  sud 
den.  Johnny,  I've  a  lot  to  say  to  you ;  but  I'll  wait 
— have  you  had  something  to  eat?  I  feel  pretty 
bad,  Emmie." 


FATHER  AND    SON  187 

When  Mrs.  Winslow  hastily  put  a  glass  to  his 
lips,  she  motioned  to  Johnny,  and  he  lifted  his 
father's  head. 

"You've  a  nice  touch,  Johnny,"  murmured  the 
sick  man.  "You  must  take  care  of  her ;  and — she'll 
explain.  I've  a  lot  to  say  to  you,  when  you're 
rested." 

"Never  mind,  father  dear ;"  Johnny  stumbled  over 
the  lump  that  was  choking  him.  He  was  aware  that 
the  nurse  had  come  back,  that  Mrs.  Winslow  had 
beckoned  to  her,  and  that  she  was  doing  something 
with  a  syringe  and  a  spoon. 

His  father  lay  back  on  the  pillows,  smiling 
strangely,  when  Mrs.  Winslow  bared  his  arm. 
"There's  little  Peggy,"  said  Winslow,  "dear  little 
Peggy."  His  eyes  opened  brightly;  he  took  John 
ny's  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  wife's.  "Help  each 
other,  you  two,"  he  whispered. 

"She's  been  an  awful  good  wife  to  me,  Johnny. 
You  won't  quarrel  with  her,  Johnny?" 

"Never,  father ;  never !" 

"That's  good.  I've  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you, 
son;  but  I  want  to  get  a  little  sleep  first.  He's  go 
ing  to  come  out  all  right,  Emmie ;  our  boy'll  under 
stand." 

He  closed  his  eyes  in  content ;  and  the  two,  who 
loved  him  best  and  yet  were  so  far  apart,  sat  hand 
in  hand  until  he  was  quite  asleep. 

Before  the  sun  set  Josiah  Winslow  was  safe  from 
all  human  perplexities.  He  never  awoke  again  to 
more  than  a  fleeting  recognition  of  Johnny's  pres 
ence  or  his  wife's,  over  which  he  would  always 
smile;  and  a  little  space  before  he  died  he  looked 


1 88  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

X 

4 

in  Johnny's  white  and  care-worn  features  with  a 
grave  yet  not  unhappy  look,  saying:  "It  was  be 
cause  I  loved  you,  son;  if  I  get  well,  it  won't 
need—" 

The  sentence  drifted  into  silence,  only  broken  by 
faint  mutterings  of  a  wandering  mind,  back  again  in 
the  past.  After  a  while  he  lay  very  quiet,  the  sunset 
on  his  face ;  but  of  a  sudden  he  lifted  his  hand  and 
his  face  was  irradiated  with  a  smile,  as  he  cried  in 
a  clear,  pleasant  voice :  "Here,  here,  little  Johnny ! 
let  papa  help  you  climb !" 

Still  smiling,  he  laid  his  head  on  his  wife's  arm. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  the  doctor  gently 
raised  the  head;  yet  the  sun  of  the  same  day  was 
dazzling  on  the  river  which  the  dead  man  had  loved, 
when  Johnny  led  a  silent  woman  from  the  room, 
and  saw  Peggy  Rutherford  come  swiftly  out  of  the 
brightness,  to  twine  her  arms  about  the  other's  waist 
and  walk  with  her  into  the  shadow  beyond. 


CHAPTER  III 

BY   THE  TERMS   OF  THE   WILL 

Every  one  who  has  been  in  Chicago  recalls  the 
dressmaking  department  at  Marshall  Field's.  In 
1894  this  important  feature  was  on  the  fourth 
floor.  There  was  restfulness  in  the  high  ceilings, 
which  looked  the  higher  for  the  red,  low  partitions ; 
in  the  shining  floors  and  wide  spaces;  in  the  ample 
wicker  arm-chairs  wherein  reposed  tired-looking 
women,  usually  of  comfortable  presence,  gray  hair 
and  rich  clothing.  The  quietude  was  soothing  after 
the  noisy  bustle  below ;  nor  was  it  disturbed  by  the 
occasional  apparition  of  a  handsome  woman  in 
black,  who  would  emerge  from  one  of  the  doors  in 
the  red  cherry  wall  which  inclosed  the  court,  fol 
lowed  by  a  youthful  attendant  bearing  great  bundles 
swathed  in  white  cambric, — evidently  a  high  priest 
ess  of  beauty  with  her  acolyte. 

Two  years  after  Josiah  Winslow's  death,  on  a 
pleasant  July  morning,  two  gentlewomen  entered 
this  temple  of  art.  One  was  slim,  graceful,  languid. 
Her  exquisite  toilet  was  the  most  perfect  accom 
paniment  of  a  warm  summer  morning,  and  a  carri 
age, — for  the  crisp  freshness  of  an  embroidered 
lawn  and  a  filmy  hat  would  wilt  into  dingy  limp 
ness  in  the  hot  and  grimy  streets.  Wearily,  she 

189 


I90  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

drew  a  white  silk  glove  from  a  white  hand  which 
had  no  ornament  save  two  priceless  pearl  rings. 
The  beautiful  hand  adjusted  her  hat  on  her  brown, 
wavy  hair.  Not  a  silver  thread  showed  in  the  hair, 
nor  in  that  soft  light  did  the  minutest  of  wrinkles 
disfigure  the  charming  pink  and  white  skin.  About 
her  bearing  and  her  motions,  her  gracious  recogni 
tion  of  the  shop  people's  salute,  her  careless  smile 
for  the  cordial,  almost  florid,  greetings  of  her  ac 
quaintance,  there  was  the  serene  although  gentle 
pride  of  an  amiable  woman  who  has  become  so  ac 
customed  to  her  social  power  and  her  personal 
beauty  that  they  are  no  longer  a  luxury  to  her — only 
a  necessity. 

The  other  lady  was  a  contrast  to  her  in  almost 
every  way,  unless  possibly  in  her  repose,  being 
frankly  gray-haired,  of  large  although  well-propor 
tioned  figure,  clad  in  widow's  weeds,  her  sober  bon 
net  draped  in  the  lighter  veil  which  succeeds  the 
suffocating  fall  of  crape.  As  the  two  ladies  sat, 
it  so  happened  that  each  had  extended  a  foot  a  little 
beyond  the  shelter  of  her  skirts.  Nothing  could 
symbolize  the  difference  between  them  better  than 
these  feet, — one  clad  in  open-work  stockings  of 
black  silk  and  wearing  the  least  substantial  of  high- 
heeled  slippers;  the  other,  shapely,  not  small,  shod 
in  a  substantial  low  shoe  with  a  heel  made  for  com 
fort  alone. 

The  woman  with  the  shoe  was  Mrs.  Winslow, 
formerly  Emma  Hopkins,  and  her  companion  was 
her  sister,  Mrs.  Raimund. 

Helen  Raimund  and  Emma  Winslow  were  the 
two  daughters  and  only  children  of  a  very  able 


BY  THE  TERMS   OF  THE  WILL  191 

man  who  rose  from  the  estate  of  a  common  day 
laborer  to  that  of  superintendent  and  partner  in  the 
Old  Colony  Plow  Works.  He  was  now  the  presi 
dent.  They  were  born  in  the  same  little  village  on 
the  Housatonic  River,  but  with  this  difference: 
Emma  was  born  eight  years  earlier  than  Helen  and 
of  another  mother.  The  first  Mrs.  Hopkins  was  a 
farmer's  daughter  who  had  thought  it  no  disgrace 
to  work  at  her  husband's  side  in  the  mill,  and  who 
saved  him  many  a  dollar  by  her  mechanical  readi 
ness  when  he  was  perfecting  the  inventions  that 
were  to  make  his  fortune.  She  was  one  of  the  best 
women  in  the  world, — a  patient,  sweet-natured, 
sound-headed  creature,  but  no  one  ever  called  her  a 
lady,  and  no  one  ever  called  the  second  Mrs.  Hop 
kins  anything  else.  For  the  second  Mrs.  Hopkins 
was  an  army  officer's  daughter ;  and  it  goes  without 
saying  that  when  she  married  Benjamin  Hopkins  he 
was  a  prosperous  man. 

Nelly  grew  up  into  an  extremely  pretty  girl,  who 
was  barely  out  of  her  teens  and  her  expensive 
"finishing  school"  and  back  in  Fairport,  where  the 
family  had  removed,  when  she  met  Alan  Raimund, 
whom  she  married  after  a  short  engagement.  Rai 
mund  was  a  Chicago  railway  man,  very  wealthy 
even  then  and  since  described  in  the  newspapers  as 
"a  magnate."  They  had  one  child,  a  handsome  boy 
of  sixteen.  The  marriage  entirely  satisfied  Mrs. 
Hopkins,  but  she  often  said  that  she  was  not  sur 
prised  by  it ;  she  had  always  felt  that  Nelly,  with  her 
beauty  and  her  charm,  would  make  a  great  match. 
Emma's  "great  match,"  however,  frankly  abashed 
her.  Not  so  did  it  Nelly,  who  "didn't  see  any  won- 


192 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 


derful  workings  of  Providence  or  inscrutable  wan 
derings  of  a  man's  fancy  about  the  affair,"  saying 
frankly  that  Winslow  had  sense  and  he  wasn't  a 
particle  too  good  for  Emmie,  who  made  him  happy, 
and  very  lucky  he  was  to  get  her !  Nelly  was  fond 
of  her  sister,  and  probably  respected  her  more  than 
any  one  else  in  the  world. 

"Emma  never  nags  you,"  she  used  to  say,  "and 
she  never  bores  you.  Before  you've  had  enough  of 
her,  she  always  goes  away.  I  wish  she'd  give  les 
sons  in  the  Art  of  Leaving  in  Time,  in  Chicago! 
I'd  treat  a  whole  crowd  of  people  to  them  at  twenty- 
five  dollars  a  course,  the  proceeds  to  go  to  some 
indigent  chanty." 

To-day  she  had  just  met  her  sister,  who  had 
come  to  Chicago  to  see  her,  before  she  went  to  the 
sea.  Emma  was  to  spend  the  summer  in  Fairport. 

"And  a  hotter  place,"  Mrs.  Raimund  affirmed, 
"there  isn't  outside  the  tropics !" 

"Not  always,"  objected  Mrs.  Winslow  placidly; 
"and  we  always  have  a  breeze  at  Overlook — " 

"From  electric  fans.  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  And  the 
temperature  stands  at  ninety  when  it's  over  a  hun 
dred  outside.  Still  /  consider  ninety  tolerably  hot. 
Why,  it  has  to  be  hot!  Fairport's  in  a  corn  state 
where  they  brag  they  never  have  a  crop  failure,  and 
weather  that's  good  for  corn  is  awful  for  human 
beings.  Corn's  insatiable ;  it's  not  enough  to  swelter 
all  day  for  it;  you  must  have  nights  like  an  oven, 
too.  Emmie,  why  don't  you  just  take  Peggy  Ruther 
ford  and  come  visit  me  and  be  cool,  not  cooled  off, 
which  is  the  best  electric  fans  can  do !" 

Mrs.  Winslow  shook  her  head. 


BY   THE   TERMS   OF   THE  WILL  193 

"Perhaps  you  think  I  don't  guess  why  you're 
roasting  yourself  and  Peggy — it's  all  for  that  silly 
boy — oh,  don't  worry,  nobody  is  anywhere  near! 
You  are  planning  something  awfully  deep,  and  send 
ing  Peggy  to  be  my  secretary  through  Miss  Starr's 
vacation  is  part  of  the  scheme." 

"By  the  way," — Mrs.  Winslow  did  not  trouble 
herself  to  deny  the  accusation — "by  the  way,  isn't 
Peggy  nice  ?  Doesn't  she  keep  your  correspondence 
and  your  accounts  all  straightened  out?" 

"Oh,  she's  nice,  really  very  nice,  but  she's  pestifer 
ously  proud.  I  can't  give  her  a  thing — I  can't  even 
lend  her  a  thing.  And  she's  just  the  figure  one  wants 
to  dress  up.  But  she's  so  stiff  about  it,  she's  nasty. 
I'm  positively  ashamed  of  her,  she's  worn  that  one 
black  net  dinner-gown  of  hers  so  often.  If  she  didn't 
have  so  much  ingenuity  about  changing  it,  and 
hadn't  such  a  stylish  figure,  she  would  actually 
look  shabby." 

"I  think  she  always  looks  neat  and  trig  and  sweet 
and — distinguished."  Mrs.  Winslow's  face  softened 
as  she  spoke. 

"Yes,  she  does,  that's  the  maddening  part  of  it; 
it  shows  she'd  be  positively  ramssante  if  she  would 
only  let  me  dress  her!  But  she  won't,  proud  little 
Southern  fire-eater!  Such  a  joke!  your  fastidious 
socialist  has  fallen  in  love  with  her !" 

"Johnny!"  Emma  Winslow's  calm  cheek  was 
mottled  with  spots  of  red  which  slowly  widened  un 
til  they  blended  in  one  flush. 

Mrs.  Raimund  opened  her  beautiful  eyes.  She 
laughed  suddenly.  "Emma,  you  absurd  match 
maker  !  I  believe  that  is  why  you  sent  her  to  me." 


!94  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"Certainly,"  nodded  Emma ;  "but  respect  my  con 
fidence.  Is  anything  settled?" 

"No,  nor  ever  will  be,  I  fancy.  He's  over  head 
and  ears  in  the  Pullman  strike,  which  she  hates." 

"But — she  doesn't  hate  him?" 

"I  don't  believe  she's  in  love  with  him,  if  that's 
what  you  want.  She's  as  easy  as  another  boy  with 
him;  she  is  a  sort  of  tomboy;  well,  all  girls  are 
now.  It's  very  tiresome.  If  I  had  a  daughter  I 
should  want  to  slap  her.  But  to  go  back  to  those 
youngsters.  Is  that  truly  your  scheme — to  marry 
them?" 

"Yes.  I  wish  Johnny  would  marry  Peggy;  mar 
riage  would  straighten  him  out  quicker  than  any 
thing  else.  And" — Nelly  marveled  over  the  change 
in  her  voice — "I  promised  my  husband  to  try  to 
save  Johnny." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  Mrs.  Raimund  agreed  vaguely. 
"I  suppose,"  she  continued,  "it  was  hard  on  him, 
having  Johnny  abroad  so  much  with — with  the  prin 
cess.  Why  did  he  let  him  go  ?"  She  had  never  ven 
tured  to  discuss  Josiah's  first  wife  with  her  sister; 
it  was  forbidden  ground  which  Emma  could  guard 
in  her  own  way ;  but  now  she  was  made  aware,  sub 
tly,  that  the  gates  were  down. 

"He  was  conscientious  about  it,"  Emma  answered 
with  a  little  tightening  of  the  lips ;  she  might  be  will 
ing  to  discuss  the  subject,  for  reasons:  but  it  was 
none  the  less  painful  to  her.  "He  knew  how  she 
loved  Johnny  and  how  he  loved  her ;  he  couldn't  bear 
to  hurt  them  both  so  much." 

"Why  didn't  they  send  her  to  Siberia?  She  was  a 
nihilist,  wasn't  she?" 


BY   THE   TERMS    OF   THE   WILL  195 

"Hardly  that.  She  was  a  socialist  and  worshiped 
Tolstoi,  and  wanted  to  give  every  cent  she  had 
away.  I  fancy  she  did.  But  I  don't  know  that  she 
wanted  to  kill  the  czar  or  burn  up  property  or  any 
such  violent  things.  Besides,  she  lived  in  Switzer 
land.  They  couldn't  get  her.  After  she  died  and  we 
were  married,  I  hoped  that  Johnny  would  forget 
what  she  must  have  taught  him,  and"— Mrs.  Wins- 
low  smiled  a  little  sadly— "I  suppose  I  had  all  kinds 
of  nonsensical  fancies  that  he  would  learn  to  care  for 
me.  Well,  he  hasn't  changed.  And  I  haven't  suc 
ceeded  in  making  him  care  for  me."  In  spite  of  her 
self-control,  she  sighed. 

"Then  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself!"  cried 
Mrs.  Raimund,  "good  as  you  were  to  him !  But  he 
was  a  most  obstinate  boy,  with  a  horrid  will  of  his 
own.  Don't  you  remember  that  horse  of  his  that  he 
had  when  I  visited  you?  and  say  what  I  would,  he 
wouldn't  have  a  bearing  rein  for  it  or  have  its  tail 
docked!  How  it  looked!" 

"But  he  has  a  good  heart,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow, 
"even  if  I  couldn't  win  it.  Well,  now  you  under 
stand  why  Mr.  Winslow  made  such  a  will.  It  would 
be  no  kindness  to  give  Johnny  such  a  great  property 
to  squander  in  social  propaganda.  And  it  would  be 
a  mischief  to  society  itself.  As  a  good  citizen,  Mr. 
Winslow  couldn't  do  it;  he  felt  he  had  no  right  to 
do  it." 

"Certainly  not,"  agreed  Mrs.  Raimund  cheerful 
ly  ;  "a  great  deal  better  for  you  to  have  it,  Emmie." 
Mrs.  Winslow  did  not  seem  to  hear  her, — she  was 
looking  absently  out  of  the  window.  "Mr.  Winslow 
knew  I  would  do  my  best,"  she  said. 


196  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

Mrs.  Raimund  deemed  it  a  good  opportunity  to 
satisfy  some  queries  that  had  been  in  her  mind  for 
a  long  while. 

''Didn't  the  will  give  him  a  hundred  thousand 
outright  and  two-thirds  of  the  property  if  he  keeps 
that  sum  intact  until  he  is  thirty?" 

Mrs.  Winslow  nodded. 

"And  if  he  has  lost  it,  or  any  part  of  it?"  her  sis 
ter  continued. 

"It  all  goes  to  me." 

"Well,  I  think  you  will  get  it,  Emmie." 

Mrs.  Winslow  smiled  faintly;  she  changed  the 
subject. 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  replied, — "if  he  has  really 
fallen  in  love  with  Peggy  Rutherford.  When  is 
your  fitting?" 

"She's  ready  now,  I  think." 

"I'll  meet  you  here,  then." 

After  Mrs.  Raimund's  dainty  skirts  had  flitted 
behind  the  red  wall  the  older  sister  sat  in  frown 
ing  abstraction.  She  was  roused  by  a  man's  voice, 
speaking  her  name. 

She  looked  up  at  a  young  man  bowing  before  her, 
— a  short  young  man  with  big  blue  eyes  and  long 
fair  lashes  and  freckles  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose. 

"I  guess  you  don't  know  me,  Mrs.  Winslow/' 
said  the  young  man,  "but  I  used  to  live  in  Fairport, 
and  you  used  to  know  my  mother.  My  name  is 
Bates,  William  Bates,  Business  Agent  Molders' 
Union  No.  25.  I  called  at  Mr.  Alan  G.  Raimund's 
to  see  you ;  but  the  young  man  who  waits  on  the  door 
told  me  you  were  both  gone  here  to  get  some  dresses 
tried  on ;  so  I  took  the  liberty,  as  I  thought  my  busi- 


BY   THE   TERMS   OF   THE   WILL  197 

ness  would  interest  you,  to  come  right  here.  I  hope 
I  don't  interrupt." 

"Carstairs  isn't  usually  so  communicative/' 
thought  Mrs.  Winslow,  "but  I  imagine  this  young 
man  has  his  own  ways  of  getting  information." 
Meanwhile  she  was  inclining  her  head  in  a  courteous 
but  not  responsive  manner ;  she  was  trying  to  place 
Mr.  William  Bates  in  her  memory. 

"My  business,"  said  the  young  man,  "is  about 
Mr.  Ivan  Winslow ;  I  know  him  well." 

"Ivan?"  said  Mrs.  Winslow.  "Do  you  mean  Mr. 
John  Winslow?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  but  he  signs  his  name  Ivan  now. 
I  wanted  a  word  with  you  about  him,  if  you' please." 

"Yes,  I  do  remember  you,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow; 
"you  had  a  very  good  mother." 

"She  did  washing  for  you," — his  voice  was  care 
fully  subdued, — "I  can  tell  you,  though,  she  had  a 
girl  to  do  her  washing  before  she  died." 

"I  know  she  did ;  she  had  a  good  son." 

"Not  so  good's  she  deserved;  she  deserved  the 
best  there  was;  and  I  know  it  better  all  the  time. 
'Twas  her  told  me  about  you.  I  know  you  are  a  good 
woman.  Good!  If  I  didn't  I  wouldn't  be  coming 
with  this  story.  I've  heard  all  about  the  Winslow 
will.  It  might  seem  as  if  you  would  be  the  last  per 
son  in  the  world  to  stop  that  boy  from  making  a 
fool  of  himself  and  squandering  his  money;  but 
I'm  betting  certain  that  you'd  do  a  lot  to  keep  him 
steady  till  he's  thirty.  You've  got  a  whole  lot  of 
money,  anyhow.  And  you  haven't  chick  nor  child 
but  him,  and  any  woman  would  get  soft  on  him* 
He'll  keep  himself  straight  once  he  has  that  big  for- 


198  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

tune  to  handle  and  gets  into  business.  All  this  is 
only  to  show  why  I'm  speaking  to  you,  madam.  I 
expect  you  know  that  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  Ivan, 
— I  may  say  I  know  him  well." 

"So  I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow  composed 
ly  ;  she  did  not  show  any  emotion  either  of  surprise 
or  incredulity;  she  had  fixed  her  calm,  keen  eyes 
on  the  young  man's  face  and  listened  attentively, 
but  if  in  assent  or  in  disbelief  was  beyond  Billy 
Bates'  guessing.  He  drove  on  doggedly  to  his  ob 
ject. 

"He  has  got  in  with  the  socialists  pretty  deep. 
And  I'm  going  to  talk  confidentially  with  you,  Mrs. 
Winslow,  if  you'll  let  me  and  keep  what  I  say,  my 
opinions,  I  mean,  to  yourself.  You  know  I  have  got 
my  position  in  labor  circles  to  maintain.  When  I 
think  our  folks  are  making  a  mistake  I  can't  always 
say  so  in  the  newspapers,  can  I?"  He  looked  up  at 
her  in  a  manner  she  found  very  winning. 

"I  understand.  This  is  a  confidential  interview  so 
far  as  your  opinions  are  concerned,"  said  she. 

"That's  right.  Thank  you.  I  always  heard  you 
were  a  perfect  lady.  You  see  I  have  got  a  lady  friend 
in  Fairport — well,  no,  ma'am,  she  ain't  quite  that; 
I  don't  know  her  quite  well  enough  to  call  her  that ; 
I  wish  I  did," — he  smiled  in  a  kind  of  shamefaced 
way  first,  but  then  openly,  as  if  he  tasted  the  humor 
of  his  own  embarrassment — "well,  she  tells  me  con 
siderable  of  the  things  which  everybody  knows,  and 
I  always  drop  in  at  Darrell's  when  I'm  in  town,  so 
I  get  more.  Maybe  I'm  wrong,  but  I've  sized  it  up 
in  my  own  mind  that  Mr.  Winslow  and  you  tried 
to  save  Ivan,  and  this  leaving  the  money  conditional 


BY   THE   TERMS   OF   THE   WILL  199 

was  your  way  to  hold  him  in.  I  know  I  seem  to  be 
taking  a  liberty,  an  awful  big  one,  talking  this 
way — " 

"I  suppose  you  have  a  reason,"  said  Mrs.  Wins- 
low  quietly. 

"A  good  one,  I  think.  I  want  that  boy  to  have  a 
show  for  his  white  alley !  It  ain't  only  the  money ; 
he's  going  to  get  most  terribly  disappointed;  and 
he'll  take  it  hard.  He's  the  sort  that  takes  things 
hard.  I  think  he  is  beginning  to  find  out  we've  got  a 
slick  lot  of  skates  in  labor  circles  here  in  Chicago, 
and  he  squirms  a  good  deal  sometimes  at  the  meet 
ings  ;  but  so  long  as  he  has  any  dough  left  to  give, 
the  insiders  are  going  to  be  easy  on  him  and  not  let 
him  git  on  to  any  dirty  work — I  mean  what  he'd  call 
dirty — these  college  folks  are  particular,  you  know." 
William  Bates  gave  her  a  smile  of  significance,  so 
confiding  and  humorous  that  Emma  Winslow,  whose 
sense  of  humor  never  caught  cold,  returned  it  slight 
ly.  "Well,  maybe  you  and  I  would,  too,"  he  went 
on,  warmed  by  the  smile,  "still,  the  sum  total  of  it  all 
is :  Ivan  is  getting  just  a  little  bit  disgruntled.  You 
see,  the  lot  here  is  pretty  rabid,  left  over  from  the  In 
ternationals  and  the  anarchist  outfit  of  1887.  Ivan, 
himself,  started  in  out  east  with  a  nice  mild  lot  called 
Fabians.  So  he's  rather  sick  of  these  bloody  bums. 
But  that's  the  very  time  he's  likely  to  do  something 
desperate,  just  because  he  begins  to  doubt  every 
thing  he's  believed  in.  He's  pretty  obstinate,  you 
know — " 

"Obstinate  as  a  pig,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow  calmly. 

"And  he'll  be  doing  something  to  convince  him- 
off, -see?" 


200  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

Mrs.  Winslow  looked  intently  at  the  young  man 
beside  her,  sitting  in  Mrs.  Raimund's  chair, — and 
such  a  contrast  to  Mrs.  Raimund!  She  had  called 
him,  in  her  own  mind,  "ordinary  looking" ;  but  there 
was  something  in  the  set  of  his  firm  jaw  and  the  out 
line  of  his  head  which  was  not  ordinary. 

"Yes,"  she  assented  thoughtfully,  "I  see.  Well, 
what  is  he  going  to  do  ?" 

"That's  what  I  came  about.  I  suppose,  what  with 
one  fool  thing  and  another,  he  has  dumped  about 
sixty  thousand  dollars  in  the  dust-heap  already — " 

"I  dare  say.  He's  had  two  years." 

"But  if  he'd  take  what  he's  got  left,  and  put  it  into 
a  good  business,  these  cheap  times  when  things  are 
going  for  a  song,  he  could  get  enough  more  to  make 
good  by  the  time  he's  thirty.  Besides,  he's  the  right 
to  git  a  good  position  in  the  Old  Colony,  ain't  he? 
By  the  will?" 

"Yes, — if  he  will  take  it.  And  no  one  would  be 
gladder  to  welcome  him  than  my  father  and  I." 

"I  was  sure  you  would.  But  you  see," — Billy 
Bates  was  confused  all  at  once,  and  fidgeted  with  the 
arms  of  his  chair — "he  ain't  opened  his  mouth  to 
me,  you  understand;  and  yet  I — you'll  excuse  me; 
I  take  it  you  want  me  to  be  frank  and  free,  madam  ?" 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  I  dare  say,"  said  Mrs. 
Winslow  quietly;  "he  imagines  that  my  father  and 
I  want  the  Old  Colony  for  ourselves.  He  is  quite 
mistaken." 

"I  knew  he  was.  I  knew  it  all  along,"  exclaimed 
Billy,  with  an  enthusiastic  blow  on  his  knees,  "but 
— I  admit  to  you,  ma'am,  I  don't  venture  to  intro 
duce  the  subject  to  him;  except  on  the  side.  He  is 


BY   THE   TERMS   OF   THE   WILL  201 

so  high-strung  I  don't  know  what  crazy  act  he 
won't  do  if  I  was  to  mad  him.  But  as  I  was  saying, 
if  we  could  save  that  forty  thousand  and  convince 
him,  at  the  same  time,  that  you  was  his  friend,  why 
— we  could  begin  to  talk!  See?'* 

"But  how  are  we  to  save  it?" — Emma  Winslow 
had  unconsciously  accepted  the  tacit  partnership 
offered.  "He  has  some  scheme  on  foot  to  make 
ducks  and  drakes  of  it,  hasn't  he?" 

"Oh,  sure,"  agreed  Billy,  grinning;  "he's  spent  a 
lot,  already,  on  the  Pullman  strike,  which"  (his 
voice  sank  almost  to  a  whisper)  "is  on  its  last  legs 
now,  and  bound  to  lose ;  and  he  has  been  persuaded 
that  if  he'll  give  a  big  lot  more  they  can  win  (but 
they  can't;  they  couldn't  if  he  had  a  hundred  thou 
sand  to  squander!)  ;  and  so  he  has  sold  out  all  his 
stocks,  and  he  has  got  the  money." 

"Has  he  given  it  to  the  Railway  Union  ?" 

"Not  yet.  I'm  coming  to  that.  A  fellow  named 
Walter  Tyler  has  done  most  of  the  work  with  him. 
He's  on  the  executive  committee  and  (this  is  in 
confidence)  he's  the  man  who  has  attended  to  most 
of  the  riot  business.  He's  hand  in  glove  with  some 
of  the  old  Spiess-Engel-Parsons  gang;  and  he  is  a 
pretty  thoroughgoing  rascal,  to  my  mind.  Maybe 
I'm  prejudiced ;  but  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him  and  his 
influence,  we  might  have  got  them  to  call  off  the 
strike.  There  was  Miss  Addams,  of  Hull  House,  and 
a  newspaper  man  with  a  mighty  level  head  and  a 
few  of  us  who  weren't  fools,  and  we  came  almighty 
near  getting  the  fat  out  of  the  fire  before  it  blazed. 
Wally  Tyler's  more  to  blame  than  the  pigheaded 
fools  on  the  Pullman  side.  But  that's  not  the  point. 


202  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

I  only  mentioned  it  to  show  you  what  Tyler's  like. 
Mr.  Winslow  thinks  he's  a  high-minded  patriot, 
extreme  in  his  views,  perhaps,  but  awful  unselfish 
and  self-sacrificing;  while  I  give  you  my  word, 
madam,  only  two  years  ago  he  was  treasurer  of 
a  lodge  and  lost  four  hundred  dollars, — pretend 
ed  he  was  held  up  and  robbed !  And  he  went  out  to 
Pullman,  only  one  year  ago,  and  sold  fake  titles  to 
some  Kensington  lots.  That's  his  kind — " 

"But  why  does  the  Union  employ  such  a  man  ?" 

"He's  got  a  tongue,  and  it's  amazing  how  much 
more  a  man's  tongue  counts  than  his  head  'mong 
workingmen.  He's  a  mighty  slick  one.  And  then, 
too,  he's  awful  clever  with  his  hands.  He  can  break 
your  head  if  he  can't  beat  you  talking,  you  know. 
He'd  great  luck ;  he  killed  a  man  in  an  election  row 
in  ninety.  Got  off,  of  course.  He  was  bound  to  get 
off  for  that.  So  that  gives  him  a  reputation  of  a  bad 
man  to  tackle.  And  there's  no  doubt  he's  got  a  big 
pull.  But  I  guess  he's  overreached  himself  this 
whack.  That's  why  I've  come  here.  He  knows 
about  the  money.  He  knows  it  is  in  Ivan's  room — 
somewhere.  And  he  could  git  into  the  room  even  if 
it  was  locked,  for  Ivan's  boarding  at  a  hotel." 

"What  hotel  ?" 

"You  wouldn't  know  it  by  name,  ma'am ;  it's  just 
a  cheap  place,  Chris  Wulf's,  off  Clark  Street.  But 
Tyler's  well  known  there,  and  he  could  get  in,  on 
some  excuse.  This  evening  Ivan  was  intending  to 
give  over  the  money,  and  jolly  up  the  boys.  But, 
meanwhile,  I  happen  to  know  Wally  has  made  prep 
arations  to  light  out — I  mean  to  escape,  abscond. 
He's  bought  clothes  and  a  mustache — " 


BY   THE   TERMS    OF   THE   WILL  203 

"But  he  may  mean  nothing  worse  than  amateur 
theatricals — " 

"This  ain't  no  time  for  amacjuire  theatricals !  He 
means  to  skip — I  mean  abscond.  Now,  if  we  was  to 
catch  him  and  get  the  stuff  and  show  him  up, 
wouldn't  that  kinder  sicken  Ivan  of  the  whole 
bunch?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow  meditatively,  "but 
what  is  your  plan  to  catch  him,  presuming,  for  it  is 
only  presumption,  that  he  really  is  running  away 
with  the  money?" 

"Of  course  he  is;  he  wouldn't  let  such  a  chance 
slip ;  I  only  knew  this  morning  that  he  knew  about 
this  money,  and  then  I  caught  on  to  his  buying  those 
things.  I  sent  word  right  straight  to  Ivan,  but  he 
was  out ;  when  he  gits  back,  or  the  man  I  sent  hunts 
him  up,  they'll  'phone  me  if  the  money's  gone.  But 
I  know  it  is,  all  right.  Next  we'll  swear  out  a  war 
rant;  I've  a  man  in  plain  clothes  shadowing  Tyler, 
now.  We'll  give  him  rope,  and  the  minute  he  tries 
to  run  we'll  be  on  to  him." 

"But  I  don't  quite  take  it  in  yet,  Mr.  Bates,  what 
you  want  of  me,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow,  with  an  ironic 
smile  which  yet  was  not  unfriendly. 

Billy  Bates'  own  smile  met  it,  gaily.  "I  rather 
guess  you  do,  Mrs.  Winslow;  I've  tried  to  explain 
Ivan  needs  to  have  it  proved  you're  his  friend  as 
well  as  me ;  and  this  ought  to  do  it." 

Emma  held  out  her  hands.  "I  trust  you,  Mr. 
Bates ;  do  you  want  me  to  go  with  you  now  ?" 

"Well,  ma'am,  I've  a  cab  below,  waiting,"  said 
Billy,  as  he  deferentially  surrendered  his  own  fin 
gers  to  her  firm,  calm  grasp. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  THOUGHTS  OF  YOUTH  ARE  LONG,  LONG 
THOUGHTS 

"Jo'nivan,  you're  a  plumb  idiot!" 

Peggy  was  speaking, — Peggy  very  flushed,  with 
her  hazel  eyes  burning  and  her  little  firm  chin  in  the 
air. 

She  looked — and  the  likeness  flashed  over  her 
beholder — exactly  as  she  had  looked  in  their  child 
ish  squabbles;  excited,  petulant,  desperately  in 
earnest,  although  now  the  white,  hand,  which 
whisked  in  the  air,  flashed  jewels  from  its  slim  fin 
gers  ;  but  it  was  the  gesture  of  the  child  Peggy,  just 
the  same. 

The  young  man  on  the  same  bench  in  Lincoln 
Park  with  her  viewed  her  actions  w7ith  an  unac 
countable  gloom;  for,  certainly,  the  girl  showed 
affection  even  in  her  anger,  and  she  was  adorably 
handsome.  She  had  a  charming,  supple  figure,  that 
loveliest  and  freshest  of  skins  which  goes  with  the 
hair  which  painters  worship ;  and  these  same  locks, 
which  Johnny  had  once  likened  to  copper,  now 
were  a  warm  bronze,  with  glorious  lights;  and  lit 
tle  tendrils  of  them  curled  on  her  milk-white  neck. 
She  had  the  carnage  of  the  head,  recalling  a  met 
tled  horse,  which  belonged  to  the  child  Peggy,  the 
same  unconscious  dilation  of  her  nostrils  when  she 

204 


SHE    CAUGHT    HIM    WHEN    HE    WOULD    HAVE    RISEN    AND    HELD    HIM    CLOSE 

P'   *3* 


THE   THOUGHTS   OF   YOUTH  205 

grew  excited,  and  the  same  trick  of  opening  her 
eyes  and  bending  her  brows  at  once.  A  fair  picture 
she  made  amid  the  velvet  grass  with  the  gray-blue 
lake  before  her,  fading  into  a  luminous  blue-gray 
sky. 

Nevertheless  Johnny  Winslow  sighed  and 
frowned.  "Is  it  so  foolish,  then,  to  sacrifice  a  for 
tune  to  help  other  people?"  said  he. 

"Yes,  when  your  sacrifice  won't  help  them,"  re 
torted  Peggy  sternly.  "Oh,  I  know  what  I'm  talk 
ing  about.  At  first,  when  you  began  on  me  with 
your  grand  schemes  for  making  the  world  over,  I 
felt  sure  they  were  all  hot  air ;  but  I  couldn't  prove 
it,  so  I  kept  quiet." 

He  smiled. 

"When  was  that?  I  don't  remember  that  quiet 
time;  I  think  you  have  been  slating  me  ever  since 
we  met,  again — " 

"I  may  have  thrown  in  a  word,  now  and  then," 
interjected  Peggy  with  hauteur,  "but  I  didn't  really 
argue  with  you.  I  didn't  know  enough  about  the 
subject.  No,  it's  more  than  a  year," — she  sighed — 
"think  of  it !  I  went  straight  to  Mr.  Raimund  and 
asked  him  to  tell  me  all  about  the  labor  question; 
I  was  under  the  impression  that  I  could  gobble  it 
up  in  the  hour  after  dinner.  Well,  I  soon  found  out 
my  mistake ;  I've  been  at  it  ever  since.  I  was  bound 
to  convince  you  you  were  wrong,  Jo'nivan — " 

"And-  that  is  why  you  took  a  class  at  Hull 
House?" 

"Of  course.  I  taught  the  violin — they  were  much 
too  grand  for  the  fiddle.  Nice  little  Italian  mites, 
.who  loved  candy  and  music ;  I  suppose  they'll  grow 


206  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

up  anarchists,  but  they  are  very  nice  now.  I  ex 
pected  it  would  be  awfully  stupid;  but  it  wasn't, 
that  part;  it  was  the  grown-ups'  jabber  tired  me. 
There's  one  special  socialist  I  met  there  I  reckon 
I  could  slay  with  my  own  hands,  she's  so  tedious 
in  her  violence ;  but  I  listened  politely,  for  I  was  de 
termined  to  hear  both  sides.  You  said  I  was  so 
partizan;  that  isn't  partizan,  is  it?  I  met  your  so 
cial  labor  leaders  and  your  socialist  leaders  and 
every  other  kind  of  a  leader  who  scorns  a  nail 
brush;  and  I  listened  all  around  the  subject;  for, 
after  these,  I  would  go  straight  back  to  the  capital 
ists  and  hear  their  side.  And  I  tell  you,  Jo'nivan, 
the  sensible  men  on  both  sides  came  to  mighty  near 
the  same  conclusions.  And  they  weren't  your  con 
clusions  a  little  bit !" 

"I  dare  say  not." 

"I  tell  you,  you  are  not  going  to  pull  people  out 
of  the  mire  by  jumping  in  and  getting  mired  up 
beside  them;  you'd  better  keep  on  firm  ground  and 
throw  them  a  plank !" 

"Won't  it  do  to  carry  them  the  plank  and  get 
close  enough  to  pull?" 

"Not  nearly  so  well.  You  are  simply  going  to 
ruin  yourself,  without  helping  other  people.  I  know 
right  well  what  you're  fixing  to  do  noiv;  you  have 
got  the  notion  that  this  strike  will  succeed  if  you 
can  dump  a  great  heap  of  money  in,  just  at  this 
moment  when  it  is  going  to  pieces." 

"Who  says  it  is  going  to  pieces?"  Johnny-Ivan 
spoke  softly,  as  he  had  spoken  all  the  time;  but  a 
flicker  kindled  in  his  dark  eyes,  a  spot  of  red 
burned  on  his  olive  cheek. 


THE   THOUGHTS   OF  YOUTH  207 

"I  shan't  tell  you;  but  I  will  tell  you  that  all  my 
information  doesn't  come  from  the  Pullman  crowd, 
as  you  call  them.  Some  of  it  comes  from  men  who 
hate  Mr.  Pullman,  but  don't  shut  their  eyes  to  facts, 
like  you!" 

Johnny-Ivan  laughed.  "Dear  old  Billy,  he's  the 
frankest  labor  free-lance  going !  Do  you  know  what 
an  opportunist  is,  Peggy?  I  don't,  I  never  could 
make  out  when  I  was  taking  Economics,  but  I  think 
Billy's  it." 

"No,  I  don't,  and  I  don't  want  to  know.  It's  bad 
enough  to  have  to  find  out  about  American  politics 
without  having  to  dabble  in  French  nicknames. 
Bates  has  sense.  And  it's  true  about  the  strike." 

"But  it  comes  too  late,  anyhow,  your  wisdom," 
said  Johnny-Ivan.  "I  have  given  my  money  almost 
all  away." 

Peggy  jumped  as  if  he  had  hit  her;  she  towered 
above  him  in  a  flash  of  terror  which  had  the  show 
ing  of  anger;  her  voice  sharpened  in  pain.  "You 
don't  mean  it!  You — Jo'nivan,  don't!  You  scare 


me! 

u 


I  thought  nothing  would  scare  you,"  said  he, 
with  the  unmirthful  smile  that  was  beginning  to 
carve  its  fine  wrinkles  about  his  mouth,  so  often  did 
it  flit  there  nowadays.  "But  I'm  in  dead  earnest, 
Peggy.  You  see,  dear,  it  had  come  to  this,  I  had  to 
help  them.  The  strike,  as  you  very  shrewdly  guess, 
is  lost — unless  they  get  a  lot  of  money  immediately. 
Well,  I've  supplied  the  money." 

"Jo'nivan!" — but  Peggy  clenched  her  tiny  fists, 
pressed  her  lips  close  and  achieved  an  agonized 
silence. 


2o8  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

"Oh,  turn  it  all  on,  Peggy !" 

"Jo'nivan!" — Peggy's  voice  was  fine  and  small 
and  of  an  ominous  mildness — "when  did  you  give 
it?" 

"Yesterday." 

"How  much  was  it?" 

"Altogether  it  was  thirty-nine  thousand  five  hun 
dred  and  twenty  dollars  and  fifty  cents,  to  be  accu 
rate.  You  see  I  couldn't  get  par  for  my  stock  these 
hard  times  or  it  would  have  been  more." 

There  was  a  thud ;  it  was  the  bump  of  two  slender, 
clenched  hands  falling  on  the  wooden  seat  of  the 
bench. 

"And  to  whom  ?"  It  was  marvelous  Peggy  could 
keep  her  composure  so  well. 

"To  the  proper  men.  The  committee  I  want  to 
have  it ;  you  don't  know  any  of  them,  even  by  name, 
unless  it  is  Walter  Tyler—" 

"Johnny,  he's  an  unscrupulous  villain.  I  do  know 
him." 

"How?  At  Hull-  House?  Peggy,  you  ought  to 
be  a  little  careful  making  acquaintances — " 

"Oh,  ought  I?  How  about  you?  But  I  never 
spoke  to  your  precious  friend.  Yet  I  know  just  what 
he  is,  because,  sitting  in  another  room,  I  heard  him 
bragging  about  such  a  dastardly  thing.  Bragging!" 

Johnny  said  nothing.  All  at  once,  as  her  proud 
young  head  tossed,  his  mind  fell  away  from  the  mo 
ment  ;  it  was  seized  by  a  sudden  idiotic  anguish,  be 
cause  he  would  never  now  be  able  to  give  Peggy  a 
rope  of  pearls  for  that  lovely  neck!  There  was  a 
tiny  pearl  brooch  at  her  throat, — the  simplest  old- 
fashioned  trinket,  which  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Ruther- 


THE   THOUGHTS    OF   YOUTH  209 

ford  wear.  Her  rings,  also,  had  been  her  mother's, 
relics  of  the  old  days  when  Peggy  Rutherford  had 
not  dreamed  she  would  need  to  earn  her  own  bread, 
he  thought  bitterly.  Perhaps  some  other  man  who 
was  not  vowed  to  a  hopeless  quest — it  was  here 
Peggy  saw  Johnny  set  his  teeth  hard.  She  misun 
derstood  and  took  fire  in  a  flash. 

"You  needn't  get  so  angry,"  she  cried,  "it  was 
dastardly,  vile!  And  I  heard  him  bragging!  He 
was  a  picket  on  a  strike  and  he  'did  up'  a  lame  man ; 
jumped  on  him  from  behind  and  pounded  him  so 
his  \vife  had  hard  work  to  know  him.  That's  how 
he  expressed  it — and  laughed.  Do  you  approve  of 
that?" 

"A  strike's  war,  and  war's  infernal,"  evaded 
Johnny,  "but  don't  you  see  if  they  didn't  terrorize 
the  scabs,  they  would  run  in  and  steal  all  the  jobs? 
The  union  would  fight  and  starve,  and  the  scabs 
would  get  the  benefit  of  the  rise  in  wages." 

"And  you  think  anything's  fair  in  war,  do  you? 
You  don't  believe  in  fighting  fair  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  And  I  think  it  was  atrocious,  if  you 
ask  me,"  said  Johnny  doggedly;  "but  I  should  like 
you  to  see  that  there  is  some  excuse  for  men  when 
their  passions  get  red-hot  with  injustice  and  suffer- 
ing-" 

"His  weren't.  I  heard  he  sold  out  that  very 
strike." 

"You  hear  all  sorts  of  tommy-rot.  But  never 
mind  Tyler,  he  won't  get  it.  I  promised  all  but  four 
teen  thousand  of  it  yesterday  and  wanted  to  give 
them  checks  then ;  but  for  some  reason  they  wanted 
the  money,  notes  and  gold;  so  I  got  the  whole  sum 


210  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

in  money  yesterday,  carried  it  home  in  the  street 
cars,  and  this  morning  I  hunted  up  the  committee 
and  handed  them  their  twenty-five  thousand.  I 
didn't  mean  to  give  any  more,  at  least,  not  now ;  but 
they  are  in  straits,  so  I  promised  to  give  the  rest  at 
the  meeting  this  evening,  to  jolly  up  the  boys.  I  had 
a  rather  theatrical  notion  I'd  like  to  give  it  myself; 
being  the  last  of  my  stake — " 

She  caught  the  words  off  his  lips  :  "Oh,  Jo'nivan, 
it  isn't  too  late,  then ;  you  haven't  really,  truly  given 
it  all,  you've  a  little  left.  Even  a  little  will  help.  Oh, 
Jo'nivan,  please,  please  listen  to  me  and  consider 
before  you  throw  away  such  a  fortune,  for  you  never 
in  this  world  can  make  a  hundred  thousand  out  of 
nothing  before  you  are  thirty — " 

"I  know  it,  Peggy ;  I  realize  what  I  am  doing,  and, 
of  course,  I  know  the  terms  of  my  father's  will. 
Mrs.  Winslow  will  get  it  all.  Frankly,  I  don't  enjoy 
that  part  of  it  a  bit.  She  will  have  all  she  has  been 
scheming  for." 

"She  isn't  scheming.  She's  so  good,  and  it  is  a 
shame,  a  shame  the  way  you  have  been  so  prejudiced 
against  her  all  your  life.  Jo'nivan,  you  think  your 
self  so  awfully  fine  and  high,  and  you  are,  too ;  but 
you  have  been  mean  as  dirt  to  Cousin  Emma!  you 
have  been  unjust  and  cruel  ever  since  your  father 
married  her.  He  had  a  right  to  marry  her ;  she  made 
him  happy — " 

"I  deny  none  of  that.  Peggy,  can  you  talk  this 
over  quite  calmly,  just  as  if  it  were  a  thousand  in 
stead  of  forty  that  I'm  giving?" 

Peggy  flashed  her  great  eyes  at  him;  he  caught 
his  breath  with  her  beauty  and  scintillating  power. 


THE   THOUGHTS   OF   YOUTH  211 

Like  a  sword-thrust  the  consciousness  came  to  him 
that  she  was  more  precious  to  him  than  all  the  world 
besides.  And  it  was  too  late. 

"Of  course  I  can't,  Jo'nivan,"  she  said  with  spirit, 
"I  should  be  a — a — stick  if  I  could;  but  I  can  be 
reasonable.  Jo'nivan,  have  you  considered  that  if 
you  fling  away  your  money  you  won't  have  anything 
like  as  much  to  give  to  these  people  you  want  to  help, 
by  and  by?" 

"Yes,  Peggy,  you  crafty  little  temptress,  I  have 
thought  that  all  over.  I  see  the  bait  my  father  holds 
out.  He  counted  on  my  being  anxious  to  do  big 
things  and  be  a  leader  in  a  new  social  state,  and  so 
waiting  until  I  could  have  several  millions  instead 
of  a  bare  hundred  thousand,  and  meanwhile,  I 
would  be  tempted  by  the  luxury  I  should  live  in 
and  by  the  chance  of  making  money  as  well  as 
handling  it,  and  by  dealing  with  big  things  in  a  big 
way;  you  see  by  his  will  I  was  to  have  a  position 
in  the  works  at  Fairport;  if  I  kept  that  position 
and  kept  the  money,  when  I  was  thirty  I  was  to  have 
two-thirds  of  the  whole  fortune.  Well,  of  course  he 
counted  on  my  getting  to  like  my  job.  He  knew 
part  of  me  awfully  well.  There  is  a  fascination  in 
handling  large  affairs.  It's  tremendous.  He  reck 
oned  I'd  feel  it,  and  I'd  be  tempted.  I'd  get  con 
servative.  When  a  fellow  gets  hardened  to  the  poor 
devils'  sufferings  outside,  and  determined  to  hang 
on  to  all  that  he  has,  that's  getting  conservative.  To 
be  conservative  is  to  despair  altogether  of  improve 
ment—" 

"No,  it  isn't ;  it  is  only  finding  out  you  can't  mend 
the  world  in  a  minute.   Johnny,  you've  got  common 


212  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

sense;  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  let  your  heart  sit 
down  on  it  and  squash  it !" 

"And,  maybe,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  let  your  com 
mon  sense,  as  you  call  it,  which  is  only  the  conven 
tional  name  for  a  mix-up  of  cowardice  and  selfish 
ness  which  one  generation  hands  down  to  another 
as  the  secret  of  getting  on  in  the  world,  getting  on 
over  other  people's  necks — I  wish  you  wouldn't  let 
that  sit  down  on  your  heart.  It's  such  a  good  heart !" 

"Never  mind  my  heart,"  returned  Peggy  coldly, 
"or  rather  assume  I  have  a  regular  geyser  of  a  heart 
and  can't  see  suffering  without  its  spouting.  My 
heart  isn't  the  question ;  it  is,  What  is  the  best  way 
to  help  people?  It  has  puzzled  the  wisest  men  in 
the  world.  Do  you  find  it  so  easy  to  decide?  Why 
not  go  a  little  slow?" 

The  minute  puckers  of  his  under  lip,  so  like  his 
father's,  used  to  mean  a  quick  shift  of  perception 
with  Johnny;  she  guessed  that  shooting  at  random 
she  had  sent  a  bolt  home ;  like  a  woman,  she  pressed 
her  advantage. 

"Wait,  Johnny,"  she  pleaded,  "wait  a  year,  six 
months, — try  the  life  your  father,  who  loved  you  so 
dearly  and  who  was  such  a  good  honorable  man 
himself,  wanted  you  to  try;  only  try  it!" 

"I  admit  I  meant  to  try,  Peggy,"  he  said — his 
head  was  on  his  breast,  his  eyes  fell  before  hers — 
"I  thought  I  would  give  the  life  of  a  man  with  a 
fortune  who  tried  to  make  other  people's  lives  a  lit 
tle  less  miserable,  a  fair  trial;  what  my  father  said 
to  me  last  summer  didn't  impress  me  so  much  as — 
as — when  I  came  home  and  he  died.  Peggy,  all  at 
once  I  realized  that  he  had  really  loved  me;  it  wasn't 


THE  THOUGHTS   OF  YOUTH  213 

his  pride  and  his  effort  to  keep  a  great  fortune  in 
his  name — " 

"I  know,  Jo'nivan,"  murmured  Peggy  gently,  "he 
did  love  you  mighty  well.  I  always  knew  that.  He 
used  to  talk  to  me  about  you;  he  was  so  proud  of 
you — oh,  Jo'nivan," — she  lifted  eyes  swimming  in 
tears,  and  both  hands  went  out  to  him  in  an  uncon 
scious  gesture  of  appeal — "this  would  be  awful  to 
him — don't  do  it!" 

Something  was  choking  her  just  when  she 
needed  to  be  calmest ;  she  bit  her  lips  in  a  spasm  of 
self-disgust;  but  he  hadn't  lifted  his  eyes  from  the 
blue  sky-line;  his  lips  twisted  in  the  same  way  that 
little  Johnny-Ivan's  lips  used  to  twist  when  he  was 
carrying  a  heart-ache  off,  boastfully. 

"But  I  didn't  dare  to  wait,  Peggy ;  I  was  getting 
such  a  lazy,  luxurious  dog  and  valuing  the  proper 
ties  of — well,  a  gentleman's  chances,  so  highly,  that 
if  I'd  waited  I  might  be  a  selfish  sneak  myself  and 
break  all  my  promises  to  my  mother;  no  telling. 
Besides,  this  hundred  thousand  my  father  gave  me 
with  his  eyes  open;  he  knew  exactly  what  I  might 
do  with  it;  but  to  save  it  and  scoop  in  the  big  for 
tune,  only  to  use  it  in  a  way  he  would  have  detested 
— oh,  you  see  I  couldn't  do  that,  Peggy,  dear !" 

"You're  a  nice  boy,  Jo'nivan,"  sighed  Peggy, 
"but  you  never  did  see  things  all  round  them.  You 
have  thrown  away  your  chance  of  getting  your 
father's  fortune;  you  don't  need  to  worry  about 
that.  But  why  must  you  throw  away  your  chance 
of  making  a  fortune  of  your  own?  Why  must  you 
strip  yourself  to  the  bone  as  well  as  bare  ?  Bless  you, 
honey,  there  will  be  plenty  of  distressed  socialists 


214  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

waiting  for  your  money  next  year !  Save  a  little  for 
them.  Why  not  wait  a  year — wait  six  months?" 

"The  strike  would  be  lost  then.  I'll  admit  I  hesi 
tated,  I  wanted  to  be  sure  my  little  stake,  which  was 
all  the  stake  I  had,  wouldn't  simply  be  swallowed 
up ;  but  it's  now  or  never  with  the  boys ;  so  it's  now 
with  me.  I've  burned  my  bridges.  There's  another 
thing :  I  never  could  quite  win  my  mates'  confidence ! 
They  always  have  felt  I  was  outside;  I  had  this 
money  to  fall  back  on.  I  was  only  a  kind  of  curios 
ity  workman ;  I'm  the  real  stuff  now/' 

He  spoke  lightly ;  but  Peggy  detected  the  sadness 
she  was  too  irritated  to  regard. 

"I  reckon  it  is  no  use  talking  with  you,  Jo'nivan, 
— you  were  always  the  very  obstinatest  boy  on 
earth!"  She  burst  forth  hotly:  "Oh,  of  course  I 
know  you  are  doing  all  this  terrible  foolishness  from 
the  best  motives.  You  think  it's  your  Russian  sym 
pathy  with  suffering;  but  it  isn't,  it's  your  nasty 
New  England  conscience  twisted  round.  You're 
getting  over  your  Russian  crazy  sympathy,  but  your 
hateful  New  England  doggedness  won't  let  you  let 
go !  And  the  worse  it  hurts  the  more  you'll  be  sure 
it's  your  duty  to  hang  on !  I  almost  wish  Tyler  would 
run  away  with  all  your  money, — then  you'd  see 
for  yourself  what  an  infatuated — mule  you  are!" 

Instead  of  answering,  Johnny,  who  was  facing 
the  stream  of  carriages  while  her  face  was  averted, 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  raised  his  hat,  with  a  bow 
and  a  perfunctory  smile,  and  Peggy  was  aware  of 
the  blended  flash  of  silver  harness  trappings  and 
the  sleek  satin  skins  of  pawing  horses,  and  of  the 
soft  billowing  of  a  lady's  gown  over  a  victoria. 


THE   THOUGHTS   OF   YOUTH  215 

"Why,  Peggy !"  exclaimed  the  lady.  She  smiled 
mischievously. 

"I  happened  on  Miss  Rutherford,  here,  by  a  lucky 
chance,  Mrs.  Raimund," — Johnny  offered  his  ex 
planation  with  a  nonchalance  that  Peggy  admired. 

"Then  you've  happened  on  me  by  an  unlucky 
one,"  said  Mrs.  Raimund,  "for  I  must  take  her 
away.  There  is  barely  time  to  get  back  to  luncheon 
and  see  me  off — unless  she  wants  to  desert  me,  like 
my  sister,  who  mysteriously  disappeared  at  Field's/' 

"On  the  contrary,  it  was  a  most  lucky  chance," 
said  Johnny,  with  the  smile  his  friends  liked,  "for 
I  wanted  to  bid  you  good-by  and  thank  you  for  be 
ing  so  good  to  me,  and  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
get  down  to  the  train." 

"I  got  your  note  and  the  flowers.  I  didn't  know 
Tolstoi  permitted  flowers." 

Johnny  laughed.  "I'm  afraid  he  doesn't.  But,  you 
see,  this  is  my  last  day  as  a  gilded  trifler.  I've  got  a 
job,  and  I'm  going  to  be  a  mechanic  for  keeps  to 
morrow.  So  I'm  taking  the  privileges  of  farewell." 

"Take  more  and  come  to  luncheon  and  explain 
yourself.  Oh,  that's  too  bad!" — at  Johnny's  mur 
mur  of  excuse — "well,  if  you  can't,  why  not  come 
up  in  the  evening  and  dine  with  Mrs.  Winslow  and 
Peggy  and  Mr.  Raimund  ?  Emma  and  Peggy  go  to 
Fairport  to-morrow — no,  don't  think  up  another 
engagement.  Come." 

"I  will,  if— if  I  may,  Peggy?" 

"Of  course,  do  come,  Jo'nivan,"  said  Peggy  in  a 
carefully  matter-of-fact  way.  But  why,  she  de 
manded  angrily  of  herself,  in  the  victoria,  why  need 
she  have  blushed? 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    SOUTHERN    WAY 

Mrs.  Alan  Raimund  was  passing  through  the  gate 
which  guarded  the  Michigan  Southern  and  Lake 
Shore  railway  tracks,  at  the  Old  Rock  Island  depot. 
The  procession  was  impressive.  First  came  two 
porters  bearing  (under  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Raimund's 
maid)  dress-suit-cases,  lizard-skin  bags  and  a  bun 
dle  of  rugs,  for  Mrs.  Raimund  abominated  "the 
boards  the  Pullman  Company  calls  blankets;"  next 
the  maid  laden  with  Johnny's  flowers ;  then  the  lady 
of  quality  herself,  dutifully  escorted  by  her  hus 
band;  and  last,  her  son,  Cecil,  with  Peggy  Ruther 
ford. 

Cecil,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  had  insisted  on 
carrying  his  hand-bag.  He  was  chatting  very  busily 
with  Peggy,  who  was  a  great  chum  of  his.  Peggy 
had  forced  her  chagrin  and  actual  misery  out  of 
sight.  She  found  it  the  easier  assuming  the  mood 
of  her  friends  since  Mrs.  Winslow  had  not  yet  re 
turned — to  Mrs.  Raimund's  vast  annoyance,  pep 
pered  with  alarm,  which  expressed  itself  in  so  many 
ways  that  every  one  had  a  chance  of  failing  to  as 
suage  it,  and  a  slight  dejection  in  the  hearers  seemed 
no  more  than  polite. 

"What  did  she  say  in  her  note  which  was  handed 
216 


THE   SOUTHERN   WAY  217 

you  at  Field's?"  asked  Raimund,  taking  his  turn 
at  ineffectual  comfort. 

"Said  that  she  was  unexpectedly  called  away  by 
important  business  and  would  see  me,  she  hoped,  at 
luncheon ;  anyhow,  at  the  train.  Now  we  have  had 
luncheon,  and  she  isn't  here.  I  shan't  wait  for  her. 
I  don't  think  it  nice  of  her  at  all.  You  don't  suppose 
she  could  have  been  enticed  away  to  be  robbed?" 

"Hardly,"  observed  her  husband  dryly;  "sister 
Emma  wouldn't  be  a  healthy  subject  for  kidnap 
pers!" 

"Of  course  the  train  couldn't  be  late !  Alan,  won't 
they  wait  the  train  if  you  say  so?  What  if  it  isn't 
your  road,  they  might  be  a  little  obliging,  I  think. 
I  don't  see  what  Emma  was  thinking  of !  Why  did 
she  come  to  Chicago  to  see  me  if  she  is  going  to 
act  this  weird  way?" 

"There's  eight  minutes  yet,"  said  Raimund,  "come 
in  and  get  settled.  I'll  watch  for  her  outside." 

It  was  really  an  unworthy  device  to  escape  from 
his  marital  duties,  and  his  wife  detected  it  instantly. 
He  needn't  do  anything  of  the  kind,  she  told  him; 
Peggy  would  wait. 

"And  I'll  wait  with  Miss  Peggy,"  volunteered 
Cecil. 

"And  have  some  one  kidnapping  you!"  inter 
rupted  Mrs.  Raimund.  "No,  come  in  and  let  Peggy 
keep  watch.  She  won't  come — just  as  likely  as  not 
it's  some  foolish  old  woman  run  over  by  the  cars, 
and  she  saw  it  and  rushed  down  to  help  her.  Emma 
is  too  ridiculous  sometimes,  you  know  she  is,  Alan ! 
I  do  think  that  she  might  have  waited  until  I  went ; 
there  were  several  things  I  really  wanted  to  talk  to 


218  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 


her  about,  now  I'll  have  to  write,  and  that  is  a  nui 


sance — " 


In  such  bewailings  and  complaints  her  voice  faded 
plaintively  and  was  lost  within  the  car.  Cecil  was 
giving  his  own  last  messages  to  Peggy,  regarding 
Aunt  Emma,  and  Best,  the  coachman,  who  must 
not  allow  Tom,  the  groom,  to  drive  Arkansas  Trav 
eler  (Cecil's  own  horse)  ever;  Best  must  exercise 
him  himself,  and  he  was  awfully  sorry  not  to  see 
Aunt  Emma  and — 

"You  really  must  go,  Cis,  honey,  your  mother 
will  be  worried !" 

"Oh,  there's  five  minutes.  Tell — where  are  you 
going?" 

Peggy  had  darted  from  his  side;  he  lost  her  in 
the  crowd  at  the  gate  and  stared  until  a  man  pushed 
him  to  one  side  with  a  curt :  "Excuse  me,  but  I'm 
going  on  this  train." 

"First  Aunt  Emma  and  now  Miss  Peggy !"  cried 
Cecil ;  "what  in  thunder's  up !  Mysterious  disap 
pearances  are  getting  a  lot  too  common  here !" 

He  swung  round  to  perceive  Peggy  at  his  elbow, 
breathless,  with  curious  burning  spots  on  each  cheek, 
and  their  reflection  sparkling  in  her  hazel  eyes. 

"Cis,  please  go  on,  I'm  going  with  you." 

"But  how  about  Aunt  Emma  ?" 

"I'll  explain  later;  now  get  on,  Cis,  quick!  I  have 
to  see  your  father." 

Cecil  was  so  propelled  by  the  impetus  of  a  certain 
suppressed  but  intense  excitement  in  her  manner, 
that  he  obeyed  without  question. 

In  the  car  vestibule  they  brushed  past  the  man 
who  had  jostled  Cecil.  He  was  a  tall  man,  very  well 


THE   SOUTHERN   WAY  219 

dressed,  and  he  was  carrying  a  dark  red,  russia- 
leather  bag  with  a  silver  monogram  on  the  outside. 
This  man  turned,  giving  Cis  the  sweep  of  a  heavy 
black  mustache  and  the  gleam  of  a  full  black  eye, 
before  Peggy  went  by. 

She  saw  Mr.  Raimund  at  the  state-room  door ;  he 
read  the  scarlet  mounting  to  her  cheek  and  the  fire 
dancing  in  her  eye  with  a  better  trained  perception 
than  his  son's,  and  quietly  drew  her  apart. 

"Anything  doing?"  he  began. 

"I  haven't  seen  Mrs.  Winslow.  But" — her  voice 
sank — "don't  show  any  interest  in  what  I'm  saying ! 
Do  you  see  that  man  behind  us,  the  tall  man  in  the 
light-brown  suit,  with  a  black  mustache  ?  He  is  hold 
ing  a  russia-leather  bag  with  a  silver  monogram  on 
it.  That  bag  belongs  to  Johnny  Winslow  and  there 
are  fourteen  thousand  dollars  in  bank-notes  and  gold 
in  it ;  I  am  almost  certain  the  man  means  to  steal  it. 
He  has  bought  a  ticket  to  Buffalo — " 

"Sorry  to  hurry  you,  Mr.  Raimund," — the  porter 
was  bowing  at  one  elbow. 

"No  hurry ;  I'm  going  on  to  Englewood,"  replied 
Raimund,  who  had  a  business  man's  habit  of  hitting 
a  decision  on  the  wing. 

Peggy  gave  him  a  grateful  glance. 

"And  I  reckon  a  lady's  trying  to  catch  you-all's 
attention,"  said  the  porter. 

Peggy  was  at  the  window  before  Raimund;  she 
saw  Mrs.  Winslow  hurrying  toward  the  gate,  too 
late.  Perceiving  that  it  was,  she  gave  over  the  ef 
fort  and  smiled  and  waved  farewell.  Doubtless  she 
was  not  surprised  at  Peggy's  presence  with  the 
party,  as  Englewood  is  only  twenty  minutes  from 


220  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

the  central  station,  and  Nelly  might  have  taken  a 
notion  to  have  company  so  far.  She  did  not  look 
disturbed  in  any  way.  Mrs.  Raimund  was  calling 
out  of  the  drawing-room  window  something  about 
sending  a  telegram.  The  great  wheels  were  grind 
ing  faster ;  the  words  were  drowned  amid  the  heavy 
din  of  motion ;  in  a  second  Mrs.  Winslow's  face  was 
gone,  lost  in  a  blur  of  faces,  replaced  by  the  barren 
spaces  of  steel  arches  and  sheds  and  gleaming  rails. 

"And  now,  Miss  Peggy,"  said  Raimund,  seating 
himself,  "get  on  with  the  tale." 

Peggy  glanced  with  apparent  carelessness  over 
her  shoulder  before  she  sat  down. 

"He's  safe  in  the  seat,"  she  breathed,  "now  tell 
me,  can  you  arrest  him  ?" 

"What  are  the  facts?" 

Peggy  gave  them  succinctly. 

Raimund  shook  his  handsome  gray  head  and 
smiled  a  little  under  his  mustache.  "I'm  afraid,  Miss 
Peggy,  that  you  are  relying  more  on  your  prejudices 
than  your  facts.  Tyler  knows  about  the  money. 
Tyler  is  a  villain.  Tyler  is  carrying  Winslow's  bag. 
There  is  the  case.  Suspicious,  maybe,  but  nothing 
proved.  Winslow  may  have  given  him  the  bag. 
We'd  be  in  a  pretty  box  if  we  arrested  him  »nd 
found  it  full  of  clean  collars  and  cigars." 

"I  noticed  the  way  he  carried  it.  Cigars  and  col 
lars  are  light;  that  bag  pulled  his  arm  down." 

"That  may  mean  something.  But  there  are  other 
heavy  things  besides  gold,  say  revolvers  and  bottles. 
These  fellows  are  traveling  all  over,  making  mis 
chief  for  us,  but  they  generally  go  deadhead  because 
we've  been  afraid  to  refuse  them  passes.  But  he 


THE   SOUTHERN   WAY  221 

bought  a  ticket.  That's  suspicious,  I  grant  you.  I 
think,  Miss  Peggy,  we've  grounds  to  watch  him  but 
not  to  arrest  him  until  I  can  hunt  up  Winslow  and 
find  out  if  the  money  has  been  stolen.  If  it  has,  then 
I'll  swear  out  a  warrant  and  have  him  arrested  at 
the  next  stop  the  train  makes.  I'll  speak  to  the  con 
ductor  and  the  porter  to  watch  him,  and  if  he  gets 
off  before  you  get  my  wire,  why,  wire  me  at  once 
zvhere  he  got  off — " 

"Can't  we  stop  him?" 

"We  could  if  we  were  sure  he  had  the  money. 
The  conductor  could  arrest  him  all  right.  But  we 
have  to  be  sure  the  money  has  been  stolen.  You  are 
sure  this  man's  Tyler?  I  know  all  about  him,  of 
course,  and  a  pestiferous  rascal  he  is ;  but  I've  never 
seen  him." 

"I'm  quite  sure,"  answered  Peggy  steadily, 
"though  his  hair's  a  different  color  and  he  has  a 
mustache,  and  he  was  clean-shaven;  but  he  can't 
change  his  eyes — they  are  rather  full,  you  notice — 
you  can  see  him?" 

"Distinctly.    He  is  reading  the  Chicago  Times." 

"Don't  you  see  his  eyes  are — not  what  people  call 
pop-eyes,  but  prominent ;  you  aren't  near  enough  to 
see  Another  thing ;  in  one  of  them  is  a  large  brown 
speck — in  the  iris.  I  noticed  that,  and  the  way  he 
wrinkles  his  eyes  when  he  smiles,  the  first  time  I 
saw  the  man." 

"You  should  be  a  detective,  my  dear  Miss 
Peggy!" 

"Don't  you  notice  little  things  about  people?  But 
Mr.  Raimund,  don't  you  think  his  disguising  him 
self  that  way  is  suspicious,  too  ?" 


222  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

"Yes,  rather.  Although  he  may  be  on  some  other 
scoundrelly  business.  But  really,  I'm  coming  round 
to  your  theory.  You're  sure  of  the  bag  as  well  as  the 
man?" 

"Absolutely;  it  used  to  belong  to  the  Princess 
Olga ;  I've  seen  it  a  heap  of  times ;  it  has  her  coronet 
on  it,  and  initials.  Part  of  the  coronet  has  been 
wrenched  off,  but  I  know  the  bag;  there's  a  black 
stain  just  under  the  coronet — Johnny  got  it  on,  try 
ing  to  black  my  shoes  when  we  were  little  and  I  put 
my  foot  on  the  bag.  I  remember  I  fairly  loved  the 
princess  ever  after,  because  she  didn't  scold  us  that 
day." 

"Risky  to  take  the  bag ;  that's  against  the  theory. 
But  criminals  are  always  taking  fool  risks,  being 
amazing  subtile  in  nine  out  of  ten  ways,  and  then 
idiotically  rash  in  the  tenth.  But  now  about  ways 
and  means?  you'll  want  a  section — " 

"A  lower  berth—" 

"A  section,  my  dear  young  lady.  You  couldn't 
keep  awake  in  a  lower;  you  would  have  to  go  to 
sleep  in  self-defense  to  forget  your  misery.  And  you 
ought  to  stay  awake  and  watch  every  movement  un 
til  the  policeman  gets  him.  I'll  attend  to  that;  they 
are  running  light  now,  so  there  ought  to  be  no  trou 
ble  in  getting  into  the  same  car  with  him.  Does 
he  know  you  ?  Has  he  seen  you  at  Hull  House  ?" 

"He  may  have;  but  I  have  never  spoken  to  him." 

"The  chances  are  he  knows  you,  as  you  know 
him.  But  he  won't  know  you  have  recognized  him, 
unless  a  guilty  conscience  is  particularly  far-sighted, 
and  he  can't  very  well  know  that  Winslow  has  con 
fided  in  you.  I  hope  we'll  trap  our  gentleman;  it 


THE   SOUTHERN   WAY  223 

may  sicken  young  Winslow  of  his  crowd  a  bit.  He 
is  too  good  stuff  to  waste  on  this  socialistic  rot. 
Miss  Peggy,  if  you  have  any  influence,  get  him  out 
of  Chicago  as  soon  as  you  can!" 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't,"  said  Peggy,  "or  he  would 
have  gone  long  ago." 

"A  great  city  is  always  bad  for  men  whose  minds 
are  in  any  kind  of  ferment.  There  is  the  nervous 
strain  of  the  life,  for  one  thing,  and  in  a  case  like 
his,  the  sight  every  day  of  a  mass  of  misery  and 
howling  discontent  plays  the  mischief  with  a  young 
fellow  who  is  sensitive  and  kind-hearted  and  has 
his  notions  all  upheaved,  anyhow ;  why,  he  is  ready 
for  any  scheme  that  promises  the  moon !  Yes,  Cis, 
tell  your  mother  I'll  be  there  in  a  minute.  Well, 
Miss  Peggy,  what  shall  I  say  about  your  presence?" 

"Tell  Mrs.  Raimund  the  truth,  please,  she  will 
understand." 

Raimund  nodded  approval.  "And  you'll  get  the 
boy  off  to  Fairport  and  green  fields  and  general 
prosperity  as  soon  as  you  can,  won't  you  ?  He  has 
seen  enough  to  give  him  bad  dreams  the  rest  of  his 
life,  already.  Well,  I'll  attend  to  your  ticket  and 
your  section ;  but  you  will  want  money  for  your  re 
turn  trip  and  to  give  the  train-boys  something,  may 
be.  Fortunately,  I  brought  a  wad  with  me  to  the 
station  lest  Nelly  shouldn't  have  fetched  enough; 
no,  best  take  a  hundred ;  one  needs  plenty,  and  you 
can  have  Winslow  return  it;  it's  his  affair,  really." 
"Thank  you,"  said  Peggy.  The  thought  flitted 
through  her  brain  that  if  they  failed  and  the  money 
was  lost,  Winslow  would  have  as  little  as  she  to  re 
turn  ;  there  was,  strange  to  say,  an  obscure  pleasure 


224 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 


in  lavishing  dollars  which  came  so  hard  to  her  for 
her  old  playmate.  She  seemed  to  be  back  in  the  old 
protecting  elder-sisterly  attitude.  At  Englewood, 
Raimund  left  them,  and  Peggy  had  a  lonesome 
slump  of  the  heart,  as  she  watched  his  handsome 
iron-gray  head  dwindle  down  the  platform. 

But  Mrs.  Raimund  was  in  delightful  spirits.  She 
was  immensely  relieved  by  the  glimpse  of  her  sister, 
and  she  hailed  the  prospect  of  rescuing  Johnny 
Winslow's  thousands  from  the  Pullman  strikers, 
with  a  keener  species  of  the  same  interest  with  which 
she  would  have  welcomed  an  exciting  novel  to  read 
on  her  journey. 

"Of  course,"  she  explained,  "I  didn't  really  think 
anything  had  happened  to  aunty,  Cis,  but  those  grip- 
men  are  so  irresponsible,  and  I  had  a  friend  once — a 
very  sensible  woman,  too,  and  a  member  of  the  Fort 
nightly  and  one  of  the  Colonial  Dames — she  had 
her  foot  chopped  off  by  a  cable-car  and  never  knew 
it—" 

"How  could  she  help  knowing  it?"  Peggy  shud 
dered. 

"I  don't  know  how,  but  she  did.  She  never  knew 
there  was  anything  wrong  until  her  husband  cried 
out,  'Look  at  your  foot !'  She  was  lame  ever  after. 
I  always  think  of  her  when  Emmie  will  go  off  with 
out  the  carriage.  Where  do  you  suppose  she  went  ? 
She  is  the  most  unexpected  creature.  Why  didn't 
she  come  on  and  go  to  Englewood  with  us?" 

"One  reason  was  she  couldn't,  mamma,"  said 
Cecil,  "the  train  was  moving  when  Aunt  Emma 
came  up." 

"That  was  a  good  reason,"  admitted  Nelly,  who 


THE   SOUTHERN   WAY  225 

had  a  sense  of  humor,  "and  I'm  awfully  relieved, 
anyhow,  to  know  she  was  all  right ;  but  I  do  wonder 
\vhere  she  has  been." 

The  porter's  head  was  insinuated  through  the 
open  door:  "One  of  you  ladies  Miss  Rutherford?" 
he  purred  in  his  soft  negro  accent. 

Peggy  nodded. 

The  porter  smiled  a  smile  in  which  abode  a  re 
spectful  and  confidential  intelligence.  "Mr.  Rai- 
mund  engaged  number  seven  for  you  in  the  next 
cyar.  Gen'lman  with  the  bag  we're  keepin'  an  eye 
on,  he's  in  number  eight  opposite.  If  you'd  like  you' 
berth  made  up  ruther  early,  you  could  go  any  time 
you  liked,  and  maybe  not  'tract  his  'tention,  if  he 
was  in  the  smoking-cyar.  Make  it  up  in  one,  I  sup 
pose,  and  all  the  pillows  haid  to  the  engine?" 

"Yes.  And  you  can  tell  me  when  to  go  in,"  said 
Peggy,  "and  be  sure  to  bring  me  any  telegram 
quietly,  you  understand." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  do,  ma'am,"  said  the  porter,  as  he 
permitted  himself  a  flash  of  eyes  and  teeth  together ; 
they  flashed  again  at  the  touch  of  a  large  round 
silver  coin  on  his  palm.  Peggy  smiled  back ;  she  felt 
the  mounting  excitement  of  combat,  the  wild  stir 
of  the  blood  which  had  sent  the  men  of  her  race  into 
a  hundred  reckless  adventures. 

"He  wouldn't  in  the  least  mind  shooting  me  to 
escape  with  that  loot,"  she  thought. 

"Some  of  us  ought  to  watch  him  all  the  time," 
said  Mrs.  Raimund,  while  Peggy  was  considering 
deeply.  "When  he  goes  into  the  smoking-room  you 
might  go  too,  Cis ;  but  mind !  you  are  not  to  smoke. 
Listen  and  pretend  you're  one  of  those  preposterous 


226  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

boys  who  like  to  hear  men's  yarns.  When  he  goes 
back  to  his  berth,  Valerie  can  have  her  seat  in  that 
car.  Peggy  would  better  not  show  any  interest. 
She  and  I  can  look  out  when  the  train  stops." 

Valerie,  Mrs.  Raimund's  maid,  was  so  new  to  the 
country  that  she  accepted  amateur  detective  work  as 
a  normal  part  of  a  highly  paid  lady's  maid's  duties, 
and  instantly  went  on  guard,  while  Mrs.  Raimund 
tried  to  piece  her  own  recollections  of  The  Sign  of 
the  Four  and  A  Study  in  Scarlet  with  Peggy's 
memories  of  the  same  and  of  Gaboriau. 

"The  main  thing  is  not  to  rouse  his  suspicions," 
said  Nelly.  "I  hope  they  won't  come  roaring  your 
telegram  through  the  car  when  it  comes,  the  way 
they  have." 

But  the  telegram  did  not  come.  The  time  slipped 
by.  Mrs.  Raimund  and  Cecil  took  dinner  at  a  table 
behind  Tyler.  "And,  mon  enfant,  he  had  that  bag 
with  him  at  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Raimund ;  "he  had 
it  in  the  smoker,  too.  There  isn't  a  doubt  in  my 
mind  about  him.  He's  a  hardened  villain ;  I  have  no 
sympathy  with  him;  he  actually  seemed  to  like  the 
awful  things  they  served  us  and  ate  the  orange-col 
ored  butter !  He  also  drank  a  Martini  cocktail  and 
a  pint  of  champagne,  and  gave  the  waiter  a  quarter. 
His  table  manners  are  only  rather  bad.  What  do 
you  think  of  me  as  a  sleuth  ?" 

"You're  great,  Mrs.  Raimund,"  laughed  Peggy. 

"No  telegram,  yet?" 

"None  yet." 

"Have  you  seen  the  conductor  ?" 

"I've  had  a  heart-to-heart  talk  with  him, — he's  a 
most  intelligent  man." 


THE   SOUTHERN   WAY  227 

"Has  anything  happened  since  I  saw  you?" 

"No ;  we  are  on  time,  and  shan't  stop  again  until 
we  reach  South  Bend." 

Peggy  was  a  particularly  truthful  person.  Noth 
ing  really  had  happened,  she  would  have  said,  yet 
she  felt  much  better  equipped  for  adventure  than 
an  hour  ago.  Then  she  had  contemplated  Tyler's 
possibilities  with  misgiving. 

"If  he  gets  wind  of  anything,  he'll  jump  off  at 
the  next  stop,"  she  decided  dolefully,  "and  where'll 
we  be  if  we  let  him  ?  I  don't  even  know  whether  that 
conductor  has  a  gun.  I  reckon  that  fat  porter  has  a 
razor,  but  the  chances  are  he'd  be  too  scared  to  use 
it.  /  ought  to  have  something."  "Something"  to  the 
Southern  girl  meant  any  kind  of  lethal  weapon.  It  is 
almost  impossible  for  a  Northerner,  especially  a 
native  of  the  older  and  more  densely  settled  sec 
tions,  to  understand  the  naive  feeling  of  the  South 
erner  about  private  bloodshed.  He  expects  to  de 
fend  his  own  as  naturally  as  a  Northerner  expects 
to  be  defended  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  law. 
Peggy's  father  had  taught  her  to  shoot  a  pistol  the 
first  year  they  lived  on  a  plantation.  Her  prowess 
with  small  arms  was  not  only  a  jest  to  him ;  it  gave 
him  a  continual  sense  of  security  in  their  lonely  and 
isolated  life.  It  was  not  from  parental  pride  alone, 
by  any  means,  that  he  would  call  his  negro  tenants 
and  workmen  to  "watch  Miss  Peggy  shoot  the  eyes 
out  of  the  scarecrow." 

As  for  Peggy,  she  shot  wild  turkeys,  but  she 
would  not  shoot  quail ;  she  said  they  were  too  tame, 
it  was  like  shooting  chickens  in  the  hen-house;  and 
once  she  shot  a  panther  in  the  sheep  fold,  thereby 


228  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

lengthening  the  days  of  several  hound  dogs  that  had 
been  under  suspicion  of  a  dog's  worst  crime.  It  was 
characteristic  of  Peggy  that  she  took  the  suspects 
under  her  protection  ever  after. 

Stories  of  valor  and  carnage  Peggy  had  heard  at 
her  nurse's  knee.  One  of  the  vivid  memories  of  her 
childhood,  not  all  unpleasant,  either,  in  its  strong 
thrill,  was  of  mammy's  lifting  her  over  a  gutter  in 
Memphis,  in  the  days  when  they  had  gutters,  before 
the  yellow  fever  forced  sewers  upon  them ;  mammy 
lifted  her,  and  as  she  felt  her  little  bronze  slippers 
dangling  in  space,  she  threw  a  glance  downward. 

"Mymy!  mymy!"  she  squeaked,  "the  gutter's  all 
red !" 

"Nev'  you  min'  de  red  gutter,  my  lamb,  an'  doan 
you  look  roun',"  warned  mammy.  Of  course, 
Peggy  immediately  "looked  round,"  to  behold  two 
men  lying  in  a  queer  attitude,  all  crumpled  up  on 
the  sidewalk,  and  then  she  knew  what  was  the  mat 
ter  with  the  gutter.  "Oh,  poor  men!"  the  child 
cried ;  "run  quick,  let's  make  haste  and  get  papa  to 
make  them  well !" 

But  mammy  answered  sternly: 

"No,  you  leave  dem  men  'lone ;  dey  ain't  no  f rien' 
you-alls ;  dey  is  evil-doers,  an'  you'  paw'll  live  de 
longer  kase  dey  is  a  layin'  dar ;  you  hark  to  me !" 

So  Peggy  pleaded  no  more ;  if  the  bad  men  would 
have  hurt  papa  it  were  well  they  should  be  "killed 
up" ;  children  are  not  squeamish. 

During  her  youth,  she  heard  more  or  less  of  the 
violent  happenings  which  are  the  inevitable  result 
when  a  high-spirited  race  has  its  feudal  state  rent 
from  it  by  war  and  is  forced  into  a  new  order  of 


THE   SOUTHERN   WAY  229 

things  for  which  it  is  not  ready.  Therefore,  in  the 
present  stress,  although  Peggy  was  a  gentle  and 
merry  creature,  her  mind  flew  instinctively  to  fire 
arms.  She  owned  a  beautiful  pistol ;  but  it  was  ly 
ing  in  a  perfumed  drawer  of  a  dressing-table  in  her 
chamber,  at  Mrs.  Raimund's.  She  gazed  wistfully 
around  the  stuffy  luxury  of  Drawing-room  A;  but 
directly  she  chuckled.  Her  eye  had  fallen  upon 
Cecil's  hat.  It  went  from  the  hat  outside  the  room, 
to  Cecil's  section  and  a  smart  new  bag  on  the  seat. 
Cecil  wouldn't  be  a  normal  boy  of  sixteen,  to  South 
ern  thinking,  if  there  weren't  a  revolver  inside  that 
brown  alligator  skin.  But  hard  on  the  thought  came 
the  amendment  that  perhaps  Northern  boys  were 
not  so  fond  of  fire-arms  as  those  in  Tennessee. 
"Never  mind,  he's  a  boy,  and  he  spent  a  winter  in 
Arkansas,"  she  comforted  herself,  and  she  recalled 
how  he  had  insisted  on  carrying  his  bag  himself. 
No  sooner  did  Cecil  come  back  than  she  made  an 
excuse  to  get  him  into  his  section,  and  very  sweetly, 
as  his  own  chosen  chum,  she  asked  for  the  loan  of 
the  pistol. 

"How  do  you  know  I  have  one?"  said  Cecil. 

Peggy  laughed. 

"Anyhow," — with  a  man-of-the-world  gravity — 
"I  couldn't  think  of  lending  it  to  a  lady,  especially 
if  she  might  use  it." 

"Your  mother  would  make  an  awful  time,  Cis, 
if  she  knew  you  were  carrying  a  revolver." 

"But  you  wouldn't  tell  tales.  There's  nothing 
mean  about  you." 

"You  see,  if  your  mother  knew," — quite  disre 
garding  this  artful  speech — "she'd  confiscate  it,  and 


230  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

give  it  to  me.  I'd  hate  to  get  it  that  way.  But  we 
must  have  a  pistol." 

Cecil  wriggled.  Peggy  pathetically  set  forth  the 
defenseless  plight  of  the  conductor.  She  promised 
to  give  the  latter  the  pistol  if  he  needed  it.  In  the 
end,  the  lad  capitulated  and  she  obtained  the  pistol. 

After  this  her  mind  was  at  rest  and  she  despatched 
Cecil  to  take  his  mother  out  to  dinner. 

She  took  the  opportunity,  so  soon  as  she  had  the 
drawing-room  to  herself,  to  examine  the  cylinders, 
making  sure  it  was  loaded.  "Mighty  trifling  little 
pistol,"  sighed  Peggy  sadly,  weighing  it  on  the 
palm  of  her  hand.  "Not  even  thirty-two  caliber,  I'm 
afraid,  and  short  cartridges,  too !  But  what  can  you 
expect  of  a  boy !  Well,  it's  better  than  nothing." 

At  South  Bend,  Valerie  appeared  breathless  in 
her  zeal  to  report :  "II  est  parti,  madame!" 

But  Mrs.  Raimund,  already  at  the  window,  merely 
said  "Re garde!"  and  pointed  to  the  group  outside, — 
Cis  and  Peggy  looking  at  the  car-wheels  and  the 
conductor  affably  conversing  with  Tyler.  "All 
aboard !"  shouted  the  conductor.  Tyler  swung  him 
self  on  to  the  platform,  Peggy  and  Cis  after  him ; 
last  of  all  the  conductor  grasped  the  shining  rail. 

"The  conductor  is  all  right,  mamma,"  reported 
Cis,  a  moment  later. 

"Then  do  let  us  sit  down  together  and  be  com 
fortable,"  said  Mrs.  Raimund,  "and  let  poor  Valerie 
finish  her  dinner  in  peace ;  she  can  sit  in  the  car  aft 
erward.  What  is  it,  porter?" 

The  porter  was  chewing  an  apologetic  smile  in 
the  door,  a  yellow  envelope  between  his  black  fin 
gers. 


• 


THE   SOUTHERN   WAY  231 

"Miss  Margaret  C.  Rutherford?  Telegram  fo' 
you,  miss." 

Peggy  had  the  envelope  open  and  the  telegram 
under  her  eyes  before  the  words  left  his  lips : 

"Money  gone.  Will  have  man  arrested  at  Toledo. 
Tell  conductor  to  arrest  him  if  he  tries  to  leave  train. 

"A.  G.  RAIMUND." 

"I'm  sorry,  Miss  Rutherford,"  said  the  porter, 
"but  the  despatch  jest  being  addressed  to  Lake 
Shore  Limited,  the  other  cyar  porter  got  it,  and  he 
was  going  through  the  cyar  hollering  Telegram  fo' 
Miss  Margaret  C.  Rutherford' ;  but  I  stopped  him 
mighty  briefly,  I  asshoo  you.  The  gentleman  didn't 
seem  to  be  payin'  no  manner  of  attention." 

"Well,  he'll  be  arrested  next  stop;  and  he  can't 
get  off  the  train  before." 

The  porter  grinned :  "He  sure  can't,  miss,  that's 
a  fac' !" 

"Are  we  on  time?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  no,  ma'am,"  he  admitted.  "We'd  a  hot 
box  at  South  Bend;  that's  why  we  stayed  so  long. 
Los'  thirty  minutes,  and  we  los'  'bout  forty  with 
the  engine  bein'  slow  bef o' ;  altogether  we  are  ovah 
an  hour  behind ;  but  we'll  make  it  up  by  the  time  we 
git  to  Cleveland." 

"Is  there  any  trouble  with  the  strikers  any  more 
on  this  road?"  asked  Mrs.  Raimund. 

"No,  ma'am.  We  been  running  smooth  for  'most 
a  week  now." 

"I  thought  so,"  Mrs.  Raimund  replied,  "but  I 
wanted  to  be  sure.  You  may  shut  the  windows  and 
leave  the  ventilators  open." 

After  the  porter  was  gone  Peggy  summoned  the 


232  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

conductor  and  showed  him  the  despatch.  He  some 
how  inspired  her  with  trust  because  he  was  bald- 
headed  and  talked  about  his  wife  and  his  little  girl. 
The  conductor  promised  to  notify  her  at  Toledo, 
when  the  officers  came  aboard,  in  order  that  she 
might  identify  the  bag. 

"But  we  must  keep  watching  that  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Raimund  firmly,  when  the  three  were  alone.  "I've 
told  Valerie  on  no  account  to  go  to  sleep.  The  en 
gine  might  stop  to  get  water  or  something,  you 
know ;  they  are  always  stopping  when  it's  not  on  the 
folder!" 

She  continued  in  this  mood  of  vigilance  until  she 
tired  of  dummy  whist,  about  ten,  when  she  became 
convinced  that  the  engine  had  plenty  of  water  and 
Tyler  would  not  run  away,  and  she  advised  Peggy 
to  go  to  her  berth.  Valerie,  also,  was  relieved  from 
guard  duty. 

"Only  be  sure  you  wake  me  at  Toledo,"  said 
Nelly.  "It  is  no  use  depending  on  Valerie;  she 
sleeps  like  the  dead;  always  has  to  have  an  alarm 
clock,  and  she  wouldn't  hear  one  on  the  train  if  she 
had  it — which  she  hasn't !" 

Gladly  Peggy  departed.  The  porter  notified  her 
that  Tyler  was  in  the  smoker,  so  that  she  retreated 
behind  her  curtains  without  being  observed,  the  por 
ter  further  shifting  suspicion  by  hanging  a  well- 
worn  derby  hat  of  his  own  from  the  large  bracket 
of  number  seven. 

"Only  two  hours  more,"  sighed  Peggy;  "that's 
not  long !" 

But  the  time  dragged  heavily,  watching  and  wait 
ing.  Peggy  never  forgot  those  hours ;  in  their  aloof- 


THE   SOUTHERN   WAY  233 

ness  from  all  natural  usual  experience,  they  were 
like  the  woeful  night-hours  by  sick  beds  which  had 
been  hers.  Always  her  watches  were  sorrowful,  for 
always  in  her  conflict  with  death  she  had  been 
worsted.  Pale  dramas  of  past  struggle  and  sorrow 
enacted  themselves  again,  until  she  fled  from  them  to 
the  landscape  outside  her  window.  It  was  a  moon 
light  night,  and  she  could  see  the  shadowy  stacks  of 
hay  in  the  Michigan  fields  and  the  cascades  where 
the  reaper  had  left  a  shining  path.  The  train  shud 
dered  and  flinched  and  seemed  to  pull  on  the  engine 
as  it  slowed.  They  must  be  stopping!  But  cough 
ing  and  panting,  without  halting,  the  engine  pulled 
out  from  the  cavernous  spaces  amid  the  blue  flashes 
of  electric  light,  swept  past  the  black  hulk  of  the 
flaming  chimneys  of  great  factories  and  the  scat 
tered  lights  of  sleeping  streets,  then,  screaming  as 
if  in  sheer  rapture  of  flight,  tore  out  again  into  the 
long,  dark  sweep  of  the  prairies. 

To  keep  her  memories  at  bay  Peggy  took  to  song, 
humming,  under  the  whir  of  the  wheels,  all  the  old- 
time  songs  which  her  mother  had  loved  to  hear  her 
sing.  She  wished,  how  she  wished,  that  her  mother 
had  lived  to  use  the  old  piano  after  it  had  been 
tuned !  Peggy  had  to  save  so  long  before  they  could 
hire  a  man  to  come  from  Memphis  to  tune  it,  but 
Mrs.  Rutherford  never  came  back  to  rock  gently 
on  the  creaking  floor  of  the  wide  old  veranda,  where 
the  Japanese  honeysuckle  swayed  its  dim  silhou 
ettes  over  the  cypress  boards;  and  the  cotton-fields 
stretched,  green  in  the  moonlight,  far  away,  up  to 
the  wall  of  gum-trees  and  the  black  mysteries  of 
the  bayou. 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"  Those  dear  old  days  are  past  and  gone, 

I  sigh  for  them  in  vain ; 
I  want  to  see  the  cotton-fields 

And  the  dear  old  home  again !' " 

sang  the  Southern  girl  with  the  tears  on  her  cheeks, 
and  checked  herself  in  a  sob. 

"That's  worse  than  studying,"  cried  Peggy ;  she 
burst  into  a  popular  jingle,  heard,  those  days,  on 
every  street-organ : 

"  'Comrades,  comrades,  ever  since  we  were  boys, 

Sharing  each  other's  sorrows,  sharing  each  other's  joys/ 

"That's  like  Johnny  and  me,"  giggled  Peggy; 
"he  was  a  boy  and  I  was  a  tomboy." 

For  a  little  she  was  silent,  then  she  found  herself 
fitting  an  air  to  a  poem  not  so  well-known  ten  years 
ago  as  now.  She  sang  it,  softly,  while  the  moon  rode 
high  in  a  wonderful  cloudland  of  sky : 

"  'Love  blows  as  the  wind  blows — 
In  the  crowded  mart 
As  the  quiet  close. 
By  ways  that  no  man  knows, 
Love  blows  into  the  heart !' " 

The  night  wore  on.  Still  she  sang ;  and  still  the 
train  beat  its  even,  tremendous  rhythm  of  speed. 
And  still  the  moonlight  flooded  the  earth,  which 
was  no  longer  the  work-stained  scene  of  sorrow 
and  struggle  and  greed  which  the  sun  found  every 
morning,  but  a  new  world,  such  as  love  alone  can 
create, — mystic,  wonderful. 

Lost  in  reveries  of  music,  deep  as  sleep,  Peggy 


THE   SOUTHERN   WAY  235 

awoke  with  a  start  and  a  jar  through  all  her  nerves. 
The  car  trembled  under  the  vast  purr  of  the  engine ; 
they  had  stopped.  Yet  outside  was  nothing  but  a  few 
cottages  crouching  on  the  ground  like  black  ants, 
and  the  moonlight  flooding  a  wide,  level  landscape. 
She  went  on  sentry  duty,  instantly.  Tyler's  curtains 
never  moved,  but  a  brakeman  bustled  through  the 
shrouded  aisle,  swinging  his  red  lantern.  Him  the 
porter  encountered,  and  their  colloquy  was  audible : 
"Why  we  stopping ?  To  water?'' 

"That's  right." 

"How  long  behind  are  we?" 

"Oh,  hour'n  half,  mebbe  hour  and  three  quar 
ters." 

A  hand,  only  a  hand,  came  out  of  the  curtains 
which  Peggy  watched.  The  fingers  unbuttoned  a 
flap.  Next  the  curtains  bulged.  Finally  they  part 
ed,  letting  Tyler  step  forth.  He  was  completely 
dressed,  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  he  was  carrying 
his  heavy  bag. 

For  the  merest  second  he  hesitated,  peering  to 
right  and  left,  before  he  briskly  walked  after  the 
brakeman. 

Peggy  slipped  out  of  her  section.  She  reached 
the  vestibule  just  as  Tyler  jumped  off  the  steps.  Al 
most  at  the  same  moment  the  conductor  appeared 
out  of  the  other  car.  He  sprang  after  the  man  with 
the  bag. 

"We've  only  stopped  to  water,"  he  called;  "look 
out  for  the  engine !" 

True  enough,  another  engine  was  drawn  up  to 
the  huge  dripping  red  tank  on  the  parallel  rails  and 
its  headlight  shed  a  luminous  stream  around  its 


236  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

black  nozzle.  In  the  disk  of  light,  Tyler's  figure 
showed  plainly.  He  did  not  turn  his  head;  but  he 
began  to  walk  faster.  His  evident  intention  was  to 
get  behind  the  engine  of  the  freight  train,  where 
were  some  sheds. 

"Arrest  him!"  cried  Peggy. 

The  conductor  ran ;  he  called  on  Tyler  in  the  name 
of  the  law  to  halt.  He  caught  one  flap  of  his  coat, 
but  Tyler  wrenched  it  away  and  broke  loose,  run 
ning  at  right  angles.  Instantly  Peggy  fired.  She 
aimed  at  his  leg.  He  fell,  dropping  the  bag,  but  was 
up  almost  instantly.  He  snatched  at  the  bag,  but 
could  not  reach  it,  for  the  conductor  was  on  him 
again;  but  all  the  railway  man  got  was  a  blinding 
blow  between  the  eyes  from  his  quarry,  who  had 
whirled  in  a  flash,  struck,  and  darted  across  the 
track.  The  conductor  righted  himself  on  his  feet; 
but  he  did  not  pursue,  for  the  freight  engine  was 
moving.  He  saw  Peggy  standing  by  the  bag.  She 
had  leaped  from  the  car  steps  and  run  to  it.  She  lift 
ed  it  with  an  effort,  and  came  toward  him,  stumbling 
a  little  as  she  walked. 

"Did  he  hurt  you?"  cried  Peggy;  "he  was  right 
in  line  with  you,  and  I  didn't  dare  shoot  again. 
When  you  got  out  of  range  I  couldn't  see  him.  I 
reckon  he'll  tumble  down,  anyhow ;  I  know  I  hit 
him  in  the  leg.  Did  he  hurt  you  ?" 

"Not  worth  mentioning.  Just  as  well  you  didn't 
fire  again,"  responded  the  conductor  philosophic 
ally,  "so  long's  you  got  the  loot.  Is  it  all  right?" 

"It  feels  all  right,"  said  Peggy,  extending  the 
russia-leather  bag. 

"Thunder !"  exclaimed  the  worthy  man,  surprised 


THE   SOUTHERN   WAY 


237 


out  of  his  manners;  "why,  it  weighs  a  ton!  It's 
locked  all  right." 

"No,  only  a  spring  catch.  I  know  it.  This  way/' 
She  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  and  opened  the 
bag  a  narrow  chink,  wide  enough  for  the  conductor 
to  give  a  single  glance  ere  he  shut  it  with  a  snap, 
muttering:  "Best  not  let  anybody  see  that  again, 
Miss  Rutherford.  I'll  carry  it  in  for  you.  You 
folks  best  take  charge  of  it ;  you  know  where  it  be 
longs.  I'll  have  to  report  this  at  the  end  of  my  run, 
and  I  guess  Mr.  Raimund  will  explain  to  the  police." 
He  bent  his  head  and  lowered  his  voice.  "Chuck 
full!"  muttered  he;  "gold!  No,  nothing's  the  mat 
ter,  Dan," — to  the  engineer,  who  had  clambered 
down  and  was  running  up  to  him — "just  a  thief 
tried  to  sneak  off  with  this  lady's  bag.  Had  to  fire 
a  pistol  to  make  him  drop  it.  No,  nothing  wrong; 
no  strike," — this  to  two  dark  heads  protruding  like 
anaglyphs  from  the  side  of  the  car — "just  a  thief. 
Good  Lord!  here's  a  fresh  batch  of  'em!" — as  two 
porters  and  a  passenger  panted  into  earshot — "yes, 
you  did  hear  a  pistol;  but  it  wasn't  of  any  conse 
quence.  A  thief;  fired  to  scare  him;  he'd  stolen  a 
lady's  bag.  No,  Peter,  I  don't  need  your  pop  or 
your  razor,  and  it  is  against  the  rules  for  you  to 
carry  a  pop," — he  was  now  addressing  Peggy's 
friendly  porter,  who  straggled  up,  last  of  all,  armed 
to  the  teeth,  but  less  sanguinary  of  aspect  than  of 
equipment ;  for  he  was  wearing  a  demoralized  grin. 
"Hullo,  Mr.  Raimund;  you're  too  late  for  the  ex 
citement;  but  you  can  take  the  victor  back  to  the 
car.  I'll  carry  the  spoils." 

Cecil  looked  deeply  aggrieved;  he  explained  that 


238  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

he  had  kept  awake  for  hours,  and  then  merely 
dropped  off  for  a  minute,  and  nobody  waked  him. 

"Never  mind,  honey,"  laughed  Peggy,  "you  are 
the  one  that  really  did  it  and  saved  the  bag,  for  it 
was  your  pistol  hit  him.  Come  on  in !" 

Her  eyes  were  like  stars,  her  face  glowed  even  in 
the  moonlight.  Every  man  in  the  group  had  a  sud 
den  sense  of  her  beauty,  and  at  the  same  time  of  her 
own  unconsciousness  of  it;  the  bald-headed  con 
ductor  smiled  upon  her  with  a  kind  of  fatherly  pride, 
while  Cis  caught  his  breath  and  whispered :  "Peggy, 
you've  got  sand  to  burn !" 

But  Peggy  noticed  nothing ;  she  had  saved  John 
ny's  money;  she  would  win  Johnny  away  from  his 
ruinous  dreams;  on  the  whole,  she  was  glad  that 
she  had  not  hurt  Tyler  much ;  she  did  not  want  to 
hurt  anybody  in  the  world.  Away,  far  down  the 
horizon,  she  saw  the  western  train,  a  wavering, 
jointed  worm  of  fire,  crawl  through  the  darkling 
fields :  she  had  never  been  so  happy  in  her  life ! 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE    PRINCESS    OLGA^S   DAY 


A  tall  young  workingman  stood  in  the  Raimund 
vestibule.  His  sack-coat  was  buttoned  over  his  blue 
flannel  shirt  and  his  heavy  boots  were  varnished. 
Carstairs,  the  second  man,  opened  the  door.  "Other 
door," — he  began  in  languidly  haughty  tones,  view 
ing  the  smiling  artisan  under  his  eyelids ;  but  at  the 
second  glance  he  started  palpably,  a  thing  which  he 
had  not  been  known  to  do  during  his  five  years  of 
office  at  Mrs.  Raimund's.  "Mr.  Winslow!  I  beg 
pardon,  sir,"  he  gasped. 

Johnny  smiled  the  grim  sort  of  smile  which  recog 
nizes  rather  than  relishes  the  humor  of  a  situation. 

"I've  got  a  job,  Carstairs,"  said  he. 

"And  I'm  no  glad  to  hear  it,  sir,  if  you'll  pardon 
me  saying  so,  sir,"  said  Carstairs. 

Johnny  laughed.  "Jobs  are  good  things,  Car- 
stairs.  I  hope  I'll  do  mine  as  well  as  you  do  yours. 
Are  the  ladies  in  ?" 

"Mrs.  Winslow  is  out,  sir;  but  Miss  Rutherford 
is  in,  sir." 

"Tell  her  I  am  here,  please." 

Johnny's  hand  stole  to  his  pocket,  fell  on  the 
monition  of  his  conscience,  then  defiantly  went  back, 
and  he  slipped  a  coin  into  the  Scotchman's  hand. 

239 


240  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

As  Carstairs  departed  he  wagged  his  head.  "I 
doubt  he's  no  blate,"  commented  Carstairs  in  his 
own  tongue,  "but  he's  an  awfu'  gran'  lad !" 

Johnny  sat  down  in  the  reception-room  and 
looked  about  him.  The  familiar  splendor  of  the 
noble  hall,  the  vista  of  beautiful  and  stately  rooms 
came  to  him  as  if  to  a  stranger,  as  if  he  were  the 
mechanic  to  whom  his  boots  belonged.  His  eyes 
strayed  from  the  soft  tracery  of  the  lace  curtains 
to  the  rich  hues  of  stained  glass  in  the  great  stair- 
window,  and  the  duller  but  equally  rich  dyes  of  the 
marvelous  rugs  woven  centuries  ago  by  a  patient 
skill  that  triumphed  over  time.  In  the  mood  of  a 
stranger  he  felt  their  taste,  but  more  their  luxury. 
The  shifting  sea-green  of  the  heavy  silk,  with  which 
the  walls  of  the  little  salon  were  hung,  was  broken 
by  exquisite  old  French  etchings  in  frames  that 
looked  like  carved  ivory,  etchings  of  the  same  date 
as  the  curiously  inlaid  table  and  cabinet  and  formal 
chairs,  or  the  faintly  tinted  tapestries  half  hiding 
the  doorway.  The  whole  room  exhaled  the  at 
mosphere  of  an  alien  pomp,  the  delicate  arrogance 
of  a  vanished  generation  of  aristocrats  who  had 
died  for  their  pride,  and  died  smiling.  Beyond  was 
a  court,  with  palms  and  hydrangeas  and  luxuriant 
vines  framing  the  white  serene  beauty  of  the  foun 
tain,  a  charming  court  in  perfect  harmony  of  detail, 
but  as  alien  as  the  charming  room. 

Johnny  smiled.  "Yes,  I'm  outside,"  he  said, 
"clean  outside.  And  I'm  afraid  I  don't  like  it." 

"Miss  Rutherford  says,  would  you  kindly  walk 
up  stairs  to  Mrs.  Raimund's  parlor?"  announced 
Carstairs. 


THE   PRINCESS   OLGA'S   DAY  241 

Meanwhile  Peggy,  in  Mrs.  Raimund's  parlor,  had 
risen  from  the  davenport  and  was  standing.  Thus 
she  awaited  Johnny.  She  was  beautiful  in  her  simple 
white  gown,  which,  nevertheless,  had  been  adjusted 
in  every  fold,  and  immaculately  fresh  ribbons  added 
to  its  pleasantness.  The  faint  shadows  under  the 
oval  of  her  cheek  rounded  her  rose-white  throat, 
and  her  cheek  flushed  and  faded  with  her  thoughts. 

Johnny's  eyes  grew  darker;  he  wished  he  were 
free  to  kneel  at  her  feet. 

But  she  was  thinking  that  there  never  was  a 
knightlier  young  man  than  he.  And  with  an  inde 
scribable  glow  of  pride  she,  who  was  older  two  years 
by  the  sun  and  ten  by  her  knowledge  of  the  world, 
compared  his  stainless  life  with  that  of  most  of  the 
gilded  youth  that  she  had  known.  Her  heart  over 
flowed  with  a  half-maternal  affection,  dating  back 
so  many  years.  She  felt  for  him  the  love  of  his 
mother  or  his  sister,  so  she  told  herself.  He  smiled 
up  at  her.  The  wind  had  ruffled  the  shallow  waves 
of  hair  on  his  shapely  black  head;  his  olive  cheek 
was  as  smooth  as  a  woman's — had  he  not  spent  an 
hour  shaving  himself !  Indeed,  never  in  his  days  of 
luxury  had  he  taken  such  thought  and  pains  with  a 
toilet. 

"Well,  Peggy,"  said  he,  "accept  my  congratula 
tions  and  a  tremendous  scolding  for  being  so  reck 
less!  You'll  shorten  my  life,  scaring  me  so!  And 
so  you  actually  shot  Tyler,  you  little  fire-eater! 
Oh,  Peggy,  it  was  horribly  reckless ;  he  might  have 
shot  you,  dear !" 

"He  was  too  busy  running,"  laughed  Peggy.  "I 
did  the  shooting;  but  it  was  just  a  toy  pistol,  you 


242 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 


understand,  and  he  only  stumbled  and  got  up  again. 
Boys  don't  know  anything  about  pistols." 

"I  know  the  kind.  They  say  out  West,  'If  you 
ever  shoot  me  with  that  popgun — and  I  find  it  out, 
you'll  get  hurt  F  " 

"Yes,  just  that  kind.   But  do  sit  down,  Jo'nivan !" 

She  seated  herself  on  the  davenport  and  let  John 
ny  get  on  one  knee  and  kiss  her  hand,  with  a  jest. 
Johnny  looked  very  nice  in  that  attitude.  But  when 
he  rose  he  sat  an  unnecessary  distance  away,  and  of 
a  sudden  he  had  grown  very  pale. 

"Who  told  you?"  said  Peggy,  returning  to  the 
important  subject.  It  was  extremely  entertaining 
to  have  Johnny  in  such  a  proper  frame  of  mind. 

"Billy  Bates.  He  got  the  story  from  Mrs.  Wins- 
low.  Billy  is  pretty  sore,"  said  Johnny  dryly;  "I 
can't  help  enjoying  it  a  bit,  for  Billy  always  pulls 
things  off,  you  know,  and  he  had  Tyler's  passing 
so  beautifully  planned  out :  Rescue  of  the  Lamb  by 
William  Bates  and  Mrs.  Winslow.  Tyler  sent  to 
the  pen,  and  me  weeping  tears  of  gratitude  on  both 
their  noble  shoulders !  Then  Tyler  was  too  slick  for 
him.  But  Billy's  a  real  sport  and  he's  wild  over 
you!" 

"How  was  Tyler  too  slick?  You  tell  me  your 
story,  and  I'll  tell  you  mine.  This  is  cozy  and  comfy, 
— like  old  times,  isn't  it?" 

Now,  why  should  a  kind  of  shadow  fall  over 
Jo'nivan's  face?  Perhaps  it  was  her  fancy,  for  im 
mediately  he  chuckled. 

"Why,  it  was  this  way,"  said  he;  "Billy  found 
out  that  Tyler  knew  I  had  the  money  in  my  room, 
early  in  the  morning.  He  had  seen  Tyler  buying  a 


THE   PRINCESS   OLGA'S   DAY  243 

money-belt  at  a  pawnshop  the  day  before,  and  also 
a  mustache  at  a  costumer's,  or  barber's,  or  some 
where,  and  Billy  suspected  him  at  once,  for  he  has 
locked  horns  with  Wally  before ;  I  am  afraid  he  was 
right  about  his  not  being  square,  now;  I'll  own  up 
and  tell  you  that  I  didn't  exactly  like  some  things 
about  him,  myself;  yet  he  stood  by  me  so  stanchly 
in  some  rackets  I  had  that  I  wouldn't  believe  the 
stories;  and,  to  show  my  confidence  in  a  friend,  I 
was  a  fool  and  told  him  about  that  money.  Well, 
he  was  the  main  one,  I  see  now,  who  induced  me  to 
get  cash.  It  was  a  plot  from  the  first,  and  he  didn't 
expect  I  would  give  away  that  twenty-five  thou 
sand,  not  he ;  he  meant  to  nab  the  whole. 

"But  to  get  back  to  Billy.  He  was  confident 
Tyler  had  stolen  the  money  or  would  steal  it 
that  day.  So  he  set  a  man  to  shadow  him.  But 
Tyler  got  on  to  the  shadow  game.  I  figure  that 
he  got  it  out  of  the  room  that  morning  while  I 
was  with  you.  It  was  easy  enough  for  him  to 
get  into  my  room,  pretending  I  had  given  him 
the  wrong  key  and  he  was  to  fetch  me  some 
thing.  He  had  a  horse  and  buggy  waiting;  and  he 
had  an  appointment  with  me  to  go  to  half  a  dozen 
places,  about  the  strike,  all  over  the  city.  I  say, 
Peggy*  ne  nad  his  nerve  with  him,  all  right.  He 
drove  around  all  day  with  that  bag  in  the  buggy 
under  the  seat!  I  got  on  the  wrong  side  once  and 
hit  something  with  my  feet— must  have  been  it! 
And  Billy's  poor  sleuth  was  roasting  and  frying, 
running  after  us.  Why,  once,  we  met  Billy  himself 
(in  a  cab),  and  I  told  him  Tyler  and  I  were  just 
going  out  to  Pullman.  That  was  almost  five  o'clock. 


244  THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 

Billy  naturally  concluded  Wally  had  put  off  swiping 
the  money  until  night.  He  made  beautiful  prepara 
tions  for  passing  the  night  at  Wulf's,  in  the  room 
next  to  mine.  Then,  about  ten  minutes  after,  Tyler 
stopped  at  a  saloon  to  telephone  to  his  sister,  who 
was  ill.  He  wanted  me  to  get  out  and  take  a 
schooner  with  him;  but  I  didn't  feel  a  thirst,  so  I 
stayed  and  held  the  horse  and  guarded  that  bag 
without  knowing,  while  he  stepped  inside.  Hadn't 
he  his  nerve  with  him !  He  did  send  out  the  bar- 
keep,  though,  to  ask  me  some  questions." 

"Why  did  he  go  in?"  said  Peggy. 

"To  get  his  excuse.  Don't  you  see?  Sister  was 
worse;  he'd  have  to  go  straight  over  to  the  West 
Side.  He  got  me  on  the  street-cars  like  a  little  lamb, 
and  then  he  sprinted  over  to  the  Rock  Island  depot, 
picked  up  somebody  to  drive  his  buggy  back  to  the 
stable  and  just  had  time  himself  to  change  his  hair 
and  his  mustache  in  the  depot,  and  hop  on  the 
limited." 

"Then  that  was  how  he  risked  taking  that  bag?" 
said  Peggy  thoughtfully ;  "it  puzzled  us  a  little." 

"He  had  to  take  it.  He  hadn't  time  to  make  a 
change.  I  suppose  he  meant  to  change  his  clothes, 
too,  but  there  wasn't  time." 

"How  did  the  money  happen  to  be  in  gold  ?  That 
hampered  him,  too." 

"Why,  that  was — well,  it  was  what  you  call  my 
theatrical  streak,  I  suppose.  There  is  a  lot  of  rot 
talked  nowadays  among  workingmen  about  the  de 
monetization  of  silver,  and  I'm  an  out-and-out  gold 
man;  so  I'd  a  fancy  to  give  the  boys  gold.  Pure 
nonsense,  you  know,  but  it  turned  out  to  be  lucky 


THE   PRINCESS   OLGA'S   DAY  245 

nonsense,  for  Tyler  might  have  got  off  if  he  could 
have  wadded  his  money-belt  with  paper — " 

"Oh,  Johnny,  I  meant  to  tell  you — there's  an  aw 
ful  oversight — " 

"That  I'm  a  thousand  or  two  shy  ?  Yes,  I  couldn't 
get  it  all  gold.  I  dare  say  he  stowed  away  the  long 
green  the  first  thing.  But  there  were  a  couple  of 
thousand  he  missed;  I  didn't  put  them  in  the  bag. 
I  hope,  Peggy,  you  remembered  the  train  boys." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Raimund  said  she  would  if  you 
wouldn't.  I  hope  you  won't  think  we  were  too  lav 
ish.  We  gave  the  conductor  a  hundred ;  he  got  such 
a  lump  on  his  forehead  where  Tyler  hit  him,  and  he 
was  such  a  nice  man  with  a  large  family,  and  he 
wants  to  send  his  daughter  to  Smith  College — " 

"That's  all  right.  Thank  you  so  much,  Peggy. 
And  the  porter?" 

"Oh,  we  gave  him  twenty;  he  wasn't  very  ef 
ficient,  but  he  was  watching — then  you  don't  really 
mind  so  much,  Jo'nivan?  I  was  afraid  he  might 
have  taken  more.  And  there  is  a  Very  tidy  stake 
left' ;  Mr.  Raimund  says.  You  can  make  a  lot  more 
out  of  it — " 

Johnny  shook  his  head.  "I  shan't  be  in  a  very 
money-making  business,"  said  he;  "but  no,  I  don't 
mind,  perhaps,  as  much  as  I  ought,  for  the  poor  fel 
lows  needed  every  cent  of  the — " 

"Johnny!"  Peggy  almost  screamed;  "do  you 
mean — oh,  you  can't  mean  that  you  have  had  this 
warning  and  then  this  escape,  and  now  you  will  go 
on,  the  same — Jo'nivan,  it  isn't  fair  to  me !  Do  you 
reckon  I  would  have  risked  my  life  for  the  Railway 
Union  and  those  murdering  lunatics  that  stoned 


246  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

women  and  little  babies  ?  I'd  rather  Tyler  got  every 
last  cent  of  it!  I  would  so!  You've  no  right  to  give 
the  money  that  I've  fought  and  bled  for," — her 
voice  broke  in  a  hysterical  little  laugh — "you've  no 
right  to  give  it  away!" 

"I've  no  right  to  keep  it,"  said  Johnny. 

"You  never  did  give  it  over  to  that  horrid  lot — " 

"I  promised  it;  it  truly  isn't  mine." 

"And  do  you  mean  that  after  you  have  found  out 
how  cruel  and  selfish  these  demagogues  can  be, 
after  you've  seen  for  yourself  that  they  are  just  as 
hard  and  grasping  as  the  capitalists,  and  dishonest 
to  boot — do  you  mean  that  you  are  not  willing  to 
please  the  friends  who  have  helped  you  in  your 
trouble  and  who  care  for  you  more  than  anybody 
else,  you  are  not  willing  to  wait  and  think  things 
over  and  see  for  yourself  whether  these  dangerous 
experiments  are  going  to  help  ?  Jo'nivan,  I  never  did 
ask  you  anything  on  earth ;  but  I  ask  you,  now,  one 
thing,  only  one  thing — wait  six  months,  only  six 
months ;  then,  if  you  feel  that  your  honor  and  your 
conscience  demand  you  should  throw  away  such 
great  opportunities  and  break  all  our  hearts,  I  prom 
ise  you,  on  my  honor,  I  will  not  say  a  word  to 
dissuade  you.  Won't  you,  dear  Jo'nivan?" 

"The  strike  would  be  lost  in  six  months,  Peggy ; 
and — don't  you  see,  dear,  I  have  promised  the 
money?  I  have  to  give  it.  Besides,  I  ought  to  give 
it.  Tyler's  being  a  rogue  isn't  the  fault  of  the  Rail" 
way  Union.  He  was  stealing  their  money,  not  mine,, 
really." 

"Do  you  still  cling  to  those  anarchists?" — Peggy 
caught  his  words  away,  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot — 


THE  PRINCESS   OLGA'S  DAY  247 

"and  is  that  why  you  are  wearing  those  ridiculous 
clothes  ?  You  have  carried  out  the  threats  you  made 
me,  have  you?  You  have  thrown  in  your  lot  with 
the  proletariat;  you  want  to  level  us  all;  and  your 
money  will  go  to  help  cut  our  throats  and  burn  our 
houses — " 

"Peggy,  if  you  would  just  be  calm,  be  reasona 
ble—" 

"I  am  calm,"  declared  Peggy,  whose  eyes  were 
flashing  and  cheeks  burning,  while  Johnny  looked 
paler  every  moment,  "and  I  say  to  you,  now,  Jo'ni- 
van,  that  if  you  refuse  the  first  and  only  favor  I  ever 
did  ask  of  you, — I  will  never  speak  to  you  again,  to 
— save — your — life !" 

"Is  Miss  Rutherford  in  Mrs.  Raimund's  parlor?" 
The  two  excited  young  creatures  heard  Mrs.  Wins- 
low's  voice ;  the  tones  were  particularly  clear ;  it  was 
almost  as  if  the  speaker  gave  warning  of  her  ap 
proach.  Johnny  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"I  have  to  go,"  he  cried.  His  voice  was  unsteady; 
he  had  lost  his  temper  a  little,  too.  "I  was  wrong  to 
expect  you  to  understand.  But  I  will  do  the  only 
thing  I  can  to  show  my  gratitude.  I  will  never 
trouble  you  again." 

"We're  in  here,  Aunt  Emma,"  called  Peggy 
sweetly,  but  she  curled  her  lip  for  Johnny's  bene 
fit. 

Johnny  shut  his  teeth  and  darted  out  of  the  room ; 
the  red  russia-leather  bag  lay  on  the  sofa ;  he  would 
have- left  it  in  his  haste  had  not  his  foot  caught  on  a 
rug  which  slid  on  the  slippery  floor  under  the  im 
petus  of  his  plunge,  and  in  his  effort  to  save  him 
self  he  touched  the  sofa,  and  thus  perceived  the  bag. 


248  THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 

He  picked  it  up  as  his  stepmother  entered.  He 
greeted  her  with  an  effort  at  composure  and  the 
gratitude  which  he  had  determined  to  have. 

"I  must  go/'  he  said,  "although  I  have  not  half 
thanked  Peggy  for  what  she  has  done  for  me. 
Thank  you,  too,  for  your  efforts.  I  feel  glad  that 
my  father's  estate  will  be  in  such  honorable  and 
careful  hands.  It  is  as  he  would  have  wished.  Good- 
by." 

"I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow ;  "please  stay, 
Johnny !" 

But  Johnny  went.  He  held  his  head  very  stiffly 
and  did  not  turn  back  once,  nor  hesitate  a  second, 
until  he  was  in  the  hall  below.  There  he  paused; 
he  cast  a  defiant  glance  at  the  mocking  beauty  of  the 
Louis  Seize  room  and  the  court.  "This  suits  her 
better,  I  dare  say,"  said  he,  and  his  heart  was  hot 
and  bitter  within  him;  but  as  his  eye  ran  over  his 
own  image  in  a  mirror,  from  his  rough  clothing 
to  the  bag  in  his  hand  with  its  faded  and  battered 
elegance,  something  rose  in  his  throat.  He  kissed 
the  broken  initials. 

"Oh,  mamasa,  mamasa!"  he  murmured,  uncon 
sciously  reverting  to  the  speech  of  his  childhood  and 
his  first  passionate  love,  "I've  done  my  best  to  keep 
my  promise.  If  you  only  could  come  back  a  little 
while!" 


BOOK  III 

JOHN 


CHAPTER  I 

PEAU   DE    CHAGRIN 

In  the  late  autumn  of  the  year  1895  John  Wins- 
low  stood  in  the  grim  little  Kensington  street  which 
fronted  a  winter-stung  prairie,  looking  across  its 
dreary  acres,  at  the  spirals  of  smoke  curdling  in  the 
sky  above  the  factories  of  Pullman.  The  street  was 
in  its  winter  disarray,  the  more  unkempt  for  the 
many  windows  gaping  like  blind  eyes  before  empty 
shops,  and  the  litter  of  rubbish  on  the  sidewalks. 
The  low  wooden  or  brick  buildings  looked  dwarfish 
beside  the  broad  roadway.  There  was  the  dinginess 
of  soft  coal  smoke  about  the  paint,  about  the  glass, 
about  the  whole  town.  Bare  trees  and  skeleton 
shrubs  could  mask  sordidness  no  longer,  with  the 
transient  gaiety  of  growing  foliage.  The  place  had 
the  battered  and  slinking  mien  of  a  drunkard  on  the 
morning  after. 

From  one  of  the  vacant  shops  a  footpath  stretched 
a  line  of  yellow-brown  through  a  hatching  of 
withered  herbage.  How  many  dragging  feet  had 
traced,  by  infinite,  weary  pounding,  that  clear  line" ! 
Johnny,  sadly  and  bitterly  following  its  oblique 
course,  beheld  again  the  procession  of  ill-clad,  tired 
men  with  their  flour  sacks,  which  had  moved  over 
it  a  year  ago.  The  load  in  the  sack  dwindled  every 

251 


THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 


day ;  but  the  heavy-hearted  men  trod  the  path  stead 
ily,  through  the  pitiless  heat  of  that  rainless  sum 
mer,  until  the  empty  counter  met  their  empty  hands 
and  the  curt  scrawl  in  the  window  warned  them 
away. 

Remembering  the  summer,  Johnny's  face  dark 
ened.  It  was  a  thinner  and  more  haggard  •  face 
than  when  Peggy  flung  her  parting  flash  of  petu 
lance  at  it.  He  was  dressed  in  a  dark  suit  which  was 
a  little  shabby,  although  tidily  brushed  and  pressed. 
(Johnny  had  pressed  it  himself.)  At  his  elbow 
stood  Billy  Bates,  cheerful  of  countenance,  but  much 
chastened  in  toilet  since  he  had  become  Johnny's 
friend.  With  more  or  less  writhings  of  soul  he  had 
relinquished  divers  snowdrift  grays  and  vigorous 
effects  in  plaids,  as  well  as  a  diamond  scarf-pin  and 
the  general  morning  wear  of  a  tall  silk  hat.  He  did 
not  yet  know  that  he  might  wear  his  tile  on  Sundays 
at  any  hour;  wherefore  his  freckles  were  shielded 
with  a  plain  black  derby,  and  a  crimson  neck-scarf 
flaunted  the  only  bit  of  gay  color  about  him. 

Billy  continued  the  subject  that  had  occupied 
them. 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  we  are  going  to  be  able  to 
flag  Bloker  this  bright,  beautiful  Sunday  morning, 
as  the  story-books  say." 

"How  was  he  off  when  you  heard  last?" 

"Bad  enough.  He  stuck  it  out  at  Pullman  to  the 
last  ditch,  run  errands  and  was  cat's-paw  for  the 
slicker  fellows,  who  saved  something  out  of  the 
wreck.  You  know  his  wife  died?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  but  the  fact ;  how  was  it?" 

"Pneumonia.  And  the  daughter  killed  herself — " 


PEAU  DE   CHAGRIN  253 

"What?"  cried  Johnny.  "I  knew  she  was  dead, 
but  not — not — " 

"Well,  she  fell  into  melancholy,  and  one  night 
when  he  was  off  she  turned  on  the  xgas.  She  meant 
to  kill  the  children,  too,  but  they  pulled  through. 
They  offered  to  take  'em  to  an  asylum,  but  he 
skipped  out  with  them.  I  wanted  to  dig  up  a  fiver 
for  him,  myself;  but  I  couldn't  find  him.  Some  men 
are  so  damned  unlucky.  Now,  you  wouldn't  believe 
it,  but  that  fellow  opposed  the  strike — " 

"I  know  he  wanted  to  give  in,  at  one  time.  That's 
why  I'm  after  him  now."  Johnny  rammed  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  took  a  turn  to  warm  himself. 

"Why  didn't  you  wear  your  overcoat  ?"  grumbled 
Billy. 

Johnny  laughed,  while  a  faint  red  crept  up  under 
the  pale  olive  of  his  cheek. 

"Say!  you  ain't—?" 

"No,  I  haven't  sent  it  to  Poco.  This  weather 
isn't  cold  enough  for  coats !" 

"Did  you  give  it  away?"  demanded  Billy,  in  the 
stern  tones  of  a  physician  dragging  out  a  patient's 
misdemeanors  in  diet. 

Johnny  laughed  peevishly.  "Let  my  clothes  alone, 
Billy !  When  was  it—" 

"You  tell  me  about  that  good  overcoat,  first. 
Have  you  got  it  now  ?  No  ?  I  can  see  you  ain't.  All 
right.  I  tell  you  one  thing  straight  from  the  shoul 
der  ;  Ivan,  you  ain't  fit  to  live  in  a  city !" 

"Well,  if  you  will  have  it," — Johnny's  inextin 
guishable  sweetness  of  disposition  had  asserted  it 
self  and  he  smiled  as  he  laid  a  hand  on  Billy's 
shoulder;  thereat  Billy  grunted — "it  was  this  way. 


254  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

You  remember  when  the  boys  got  so  discouraged 
just  before  I  plunked  all  my  little  pile  into  the  hole?" 

"You  made  more  than  you  intended  happy  by 
that  virtuous  but  driveling  act,"  observed  Billy,  pull 
ing  out  his  cigar-case.  "Have  one?  Now," — as 
Johnny  shook  his  head — "now,  there  you  are  again, 
carrying  economy  to  a  vicious  extent ;  you  ain't  pay 
ing  for  those  cigars !" 

"I  know,  but  I'd  be  pampering  an  extravagant 
taste,  and  maybe  should  want  them  when  I  couldn't 
have  them,  smoking  them;  a  pipe'll  do  me.  But  I 
was  going  to  tell  you ;  when  I  made  that  speech  at 
the  meeting  out  there — " 

"I  remember.  Hell !  that  was  a  jimdandy !  I  knew 
it  was  playing  against  a  cold  deck  and  the  boys 
would  have  to  take  their  medicine,  and  the  quicker 
the  better ;  but  when  I  heard  you  talking  I  felt  like 
a  quitter;  I  was  mad  at  myself  for  having  good 
judgment.  Ivan,  I've  heard  a  damned  sight  of  slick 
talkers,  but  I  never  heard  a  feller  that  pulled  you 
up  by  the  roots  like  you  did  that  night!  It  wasn't 
the  money  you  were  giving,  either, — that  only 
proved  you  meant  what  you  said.  It  was  you.  Why, 
the  men  next  me  were  crying  out  loud!  And  next 
minute  they  were  laughing!  They'd  have  followed 
you  straight  to  hell  that  night  if  you'd  asked  them !" 

"They  did!"  answered  Johnny  gloomily.  "Poor 
Bloker  for  one,  anyhow.  He  came  to  me  after  the 
meeting,  his  face  quivering  and  his  hair  standing 
up  different  ways  all  over  his  head — " 

"Red  hair,"  explained  Billy;  "maybe  that  made 
him  so  emotional.  He  was  awfully  easy  worked, 
too.  Anybody  down  on  his  luck  could  get  Bloker's 


PEAU   DE   CHAGRIN 


255 


last  quarter.  You've  got  to  be  a  little  hard-hearted 
in  this  world !" 

"He  said  that  he  had  about  made  up  his  mind  to 
give  in  and  advise  the  others  to  give  in.  It  was  no 
use ;  the  odds  were  too  big ;  but  now,  said  he,  you've 
put  the  sand  in  me,  I'm  game  to  fight  to  a  finish! 
He  did,  too;  and  now  I  know  what  it  cost  him. 
Billy,  it's  an  awful  shame;  but  there  were  so  many 
fellows  clapping  me  on  the  back  and  hugging  me 
that  night;  and  I  had  been  feeling  like  a  limp  rag, 
wondering  whether  I  hadn't  made  a  blooming  idiot 
of  myself  letting  myself  go  the  way  I  did,  and  when 
I  found  out  they  didn't  think  so,  I  suppose  it  went  to 
my  head,  and  I  didn't  notice  things.  Bloker  was 
just  one  of  the  crowd  to  me,  and  he  slipped  out  of 
my  mind.  Yet  he  was  giving  up  more  than  I,  for  he 
was  sacrificing  his  wife  and  children — " 

"Which  he  hadn't  no  manner  of  right  to  do," 
Billy  amended  through  a  puff  of  smoke;  "there's 
reason  in  all  things." 

"I  led  him  on  to  do  it.  But  for  me  he  would  have 
given  in  and  gone  to  work ;  he'd  never  have  lost  his 
wife,  or  she'd  have  died  in  comfort;  and  the  girl 
would  never  have  worried  herself  crazy.  Billy,  I 
saw  their  house  once.  It  was  such  a  pitifully  neat, 
comfortable  little  parlor,  and  that  poor  girl  was 
singing  at  the  little  melodeon ;  they  hadn't  begun  to 
sell  the  things  off  bit  by  bit — oh,  damn  me!  And  I 
didn't  even  keep  him  in  my  mind ;  I  missed  him  and 
forgot  all  about  him  until  I  almost  ran  into  him  on 
the  street  last  Thursday.  He  gave  me  one  look  and 
ran  as  if  I  were  a  policeman.  He  was  thin,  he  was 
ragged,  his  eyes  made  me  sick — " 


256  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"You  didn't  catch  him?"  asked  Billy. 

"No;  if  I'd  had  more'n  my  nickel  for  the  cars 
and  hadn't  got  to  get  to  my  job  too  quick  to  run  it, 
I'd  have  chased  him ;  but  I  hadn't  had  him  in  mind, 
and  it  was  so  sudden,  he  was  off  before  I  really  got 
on  to  the  situation.  But  I  asked  some  of  the  boys, 
and  they  told  me  what  they  had  heard ;  and — well,  I 
was  low  in  cash  and  that's  where  the  coat  went.  I 
sold  it  to  an  opulent  rooster,  who  only  gets  one-fifty, 
but  has  got  it  all  summer  and  a  cinch  on  it  all  win 
ter." 

"And  you  are  hunting  up  Bloker  to  squander  it 
on  ?  Well,  we'll  come  to  that  later.  Just  now  I  want 
to  find  out  why  you're  damning  yourself." 

"I've  ruined  him;  I've  broken  up  his  home;  I've 
killed  his  wife,  driven  his  daughter  crazy — " 

"Don't  get  excited!  Say,  what  sort  of  nights  do 
you  expect  big  generals  and  kings  would  have  if 
they  got  to  thinking  what  happens  to  the  soldiers? 
You  gave  up  everything  you  had;  you  know  you 
did;  you're  a  gentleman,  and  you  left  your  crowd 
and  your  relations  and — and  everybody.  If  he  gave 
up  his  wife,  you  gave  up  having  a  wife;  you  say, 
yourself,  you  hold  a  man  with  your  opinions  ain't 
got  the  right  to  ask  a  girl  to  marry  him.  You 
worked  like  a  dog.  Damn  it,  you're  no  more'n  skin 
and  bone  yourself !  You  were  perfectly  honest,  and 
you  didn't  ask  no  more'n  you  were  willing  to  give ! 
I'm  sorry  for  Bloker.  I'm  sorry  for  all  the  Pullman 
chaps,  but  I  say  he  hasn't  got  the  right  to  reproach 
you,  nor  you  haven't  got  any  reasonable  reason  to 
reproach  yourself." 

Johnny  kicked  a  tin  can  off  the  sidewalk,  scowl- 


PEAU  DE  CHAGRIN  357 

ing-.  "I've  gone  over  all  that,  Billy.  In  the  first 
place,  while  I  went  in,  I  thought  unselfishly  to  help 
the  fellows  who  didn't  have  a  chance;  it  wasn't  all 
to  help  them ;  it  was  a  good  deal  because  long  ago  I 
promised.  Then,  I  wasn't  going  to  be  coerced  by  my 
father's  will.  I  resented  it,  and  I  resented  having  my 
stepmother  have  the  control  of  things,  and  I  wanted 
to  be  a  leader  and  show  the  people  who  were  sneer 
ing  at  me  what  I  could  do — oh,  my  motives  were 
mixed — " 

"Lord,  ain't  they  always !  It's  healthier  and  more 
natural  they  should  be.  Don't  you  know  you  can't 
work  pure  gold  ?  it's  too  soft !" 

"In  the  second  place,  no  man  has  a  right  to  urge 
other  men  into  a  fight  that  may  ruin  them  without 
having  a  reasonable  assurance  he  is  going  to  win. 
A  strike  is  a  devilish  thing.  It  was  my  business  to 
be  sure  it  was  a  righteous  strike  in  the  first  place, 
and  that  there  was  a  good  chance  of  its  winning  in 
the  second.  I  didn't  do  either.  I  jumped  in  over  my 
head  without  knowing  how  I'd  get  out.  In  short, 
I've  been  a  damn  fool  and  a  damn  scoundrel." 

He  kicked  another  tin,  this  time  a  sardine  box. 
"Don't  you  think  we'd  better  be  heading  for  the 
city?  There'll  be  a  lot  of  our  fellows  hanging 
around  the  committee  meeting,  and  though  they've 
taken  mighty  good  care  not  to  put  me  on  the  com 
mittee,  I  may  get  at  the  men  all  the  same  and  head 
off  Tyler.  Maybe  I'll  get  a  chance  at  Bloker  at  the 
factory.  I  was  told  at  his  house  that  the  shops  were 
doing  a  little  repair  work  to-day,  and  he  was  at  it. 
So  I  think  I'll  try  there — after  the  meeting." 

"I  don't  think/'  mused  Billy, — they  had  turned 


258  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

and  were  walking  toward  the  station, — "you'll  git 
them  to  call  off  the  strike  at  Wethers'." 

"What's  going  to  be  the  trouble, — Tyler?" 

"Tyler,"  pronounced  Billy,  puffing  at  his  cigar. 

"And  what's  his  little  game  ?" 

"After  the  dough,  of  course.  As  usual.  I  have  it 
pretty  straight  that  he's  dickering  with  the  old  man, 
to  settle.  But  they  haven't  come  to  his  figure.  Till 
they  do,  he'll  be  hot  for  holding  on,  at  least  a  while 
longer.  Besides,  it  makes  him  safer  if  there's  any 
talk.  No,  you  won't  get  the  strike  called  off  before 
the  last  of  the  week." 

"That  will  mean  bloodshed ;  the  boys  are  getting 
desperate  about  the  new  men.  Billy,  what  are  you 
here  for?" 

"Me?  Oh,  they  want  a  sympathetic  strike  of  the 
molders  in  Fairport  at  the  Old  Colony ;  that's  in  my 
district  now.  They've  a  contract  to  make  Wethers' 
patterns,  and  they  are  naturally  doing  it.  Some  of 
your  crowd  want  them  called  out." 

"Shall  you  let  them  go?" 

"I  shan't.  I  am  down  on  monkeying  with  con 
tracts.  I'm  not  altogether  particular  about  keeping 
the  commandments;  but  I'll  keep  my  word  if  it 
busts  me.  It's  kind  of  maddening,  though,  to  be 
playing  Tyler's  game,  for  he'll  lay  the  strike  failing 
on  to  me,  see  if  he  won't,  while  he'll  work  to  call  it 
off  the  minute  he  gets  his  price.  Oh,  he's  a  slick  as 
sassin  !  Wouldn't  it  kill  you  dead,  though,  to  see 
that  infernal  plundering  thief  toddling  back  and 
bossing  the  very  fellers  he  stole  from !" 

"He  knows  our  mouths  are  shut,"  said  Johnny  be 
tween  his  teeth. 


PEAU   DE   CHAGRIN  259 

"They  are  that,"  said  Billy.  "I  didn't  under 
stand  at  first,  but"— he  flushed  over  his  high  cheek 
bones — "I  guess  you've  made  me  enough  of  a  gen 
tleman  now,  Ivan,  to  understand  that  we  can't  drag 
a  lady's  name  into  our  fights.  Oh,  he  got  a  good 
bargain.  Fifteen  hundred  for  a  game  leg  for  a 
month !" 

Johnny  laid  his  arm  affectionately  on  the  other's 
shoulder.  "You  are  a  gentleman,  Billy.  And  I 
can't  claim  any  credit.  If  I  could  it  would  only  be 
a  fair  deal,  for  if  I  have  made  a  gentleman  of  you, 
I  hope  you'll  succeed  in  making  a  man  of  me." 

"You're  one  already.  Take  away  the  taffy! 
But  I  tell  you,  Ivan,  if  I  am  not  a  gentleman,  now, 
before  God,  I  will  be  some  day.  We've  had  them 
in  the  family ;  I've  heard  mother  tell  of  them.  But 
I'll  tell  you,  Ivan,  you've  done  a  thundering  lot  to 
help  me.  I  used  to  think  the  whole  business  was 
a  skin  game;  rich  folks  on  one  side,  poor  folks  on 
the  other.  The  rich  trying  to  skin  the  poor,  and 
the  poor  getting  the  knife  in  deep  whenever  they 
got  a  show.  Any  slick  trick  was  good  enough  so 
long's  it  was  real  slick!  If  you  were  a  mighty 
decent  feller  (as  I  meant  to  be),  you  played  fair 
with  your  own  gang,  but  the  more  you  could  fool 
the  other  side  the  better !  But  since  I  have  known 
you  I  have  come  to  see  that  there  are  things  you 
can't  talk  about  that  count  more  than  tin.  You 
can't  cheat  the  other  side.  You've  got  to  keep  your 
word  if  you  give  it  to  a  Chink !  It's  your  word  just 
the  same,  no  matter  who  gets  it,  or  what  they  do 
with  it." 

"That's  being  a  gentleman,  Billy,"  said  Johnny. 


260  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"Well,  besides," — Billy  was  so  full  of  his  theme 
he  did  not  notice  Johnny's  growing  abstraction — 
"besides,  it  has  been  beaten  into  my  head  that  there 
are  lots  of  things  the  biggest  union  or  the  biggest 
king,  either,  can't  do !  Like  this :  if  you've  got  a 
little  corn  crop,  as  we  had  last  year,  nobody  can 
make  it  into  a  big  one.  All  the  strongest  union 
could  do  would  be  to  get  a  fair  share.  But  the 
biggest  share  of  a  small  crop  mightn't  be  as  big  as 
a  small  share  of  a  big  crop.  So  I  say  this  question 
of  bullying  folks  into  giving  big  wages  has  got  its 
limits.  The  size  of  your  share  don't  cut  any  figure 
if  you've  only  got  an  empty  basket  to  divide !  The 
unions  are  a  good  deal  like  a  lawyer.  If  you've 
got  anything  coming  to  you,  he'll  see  you  ain't  beat 
out  of  it.  But  he  didn't  make  it  for  you.  All  the 
same,  lawyers  are  necessary;  and  so  are  unions. 
Your  boss,  Wethers,  for  instance,  always  cuts  wages 
a  little  in  winter  after  the  men  get  settled,  always 
snooping  about  to  see  how  much  the  fastest  men  can 
do  in  a  day;  and  then  cuts  the  piece  rate  on  that 
basis.  And  he's  making  a  fortune  while  decent  men 
have  hard  sledding  to  keep  from  failing.  Well,  I 
guess  he's  lost  money  by  this  strike.  I  hope  so. 
Pretty  mussy  world,  ain't  it,  Johnny — I  mean  Ivan." 

"Yes/'  said  Johnny,  knitting  his  brows;  "but  I 
guess  Wethers  and  all  of  us  have  to  pay  for  our 
diversions.  Billy,  do  you  know  what  I  was  think 
ing  about  just  now?  Not  in  relation  to  Wethers, 
though  he  will  have  to  pay  his  lawing,  too,  in  one 
way  or  another.  But  about  myself." 

"Ask  me  something  easier,"  said  Billy. 

"Well,  I  found  myself  thinking  of  one  of  Balzac's 


PEAU   DE   CHAGRIN  261 

novels  that  I  had  read  in  my  French  course  in  Har 
vard—" 

"Never  heard  of  him," — Billy  was  puffing  hard 
on  a  nearly  extinguished  cigar — "you  never  tolcl 
me  of  any  of  the  French  duffers,  except  Hugo  and 
Corneille  and  Molly  something  and — what's  his 
name  ?  sounds  like  troches- for-a-cold." 

"De  la  Rochefoucauld?  Balzac  was  different;  he 
wrote  novels.  This  one  my  professor  called  his 
'most  splendid'  novel.  I  didn't  think  so  much  of  it 
— then.  It  is  the  story  of  a  tremendously  ambi 
tious  young  man  who  is  on  the  point  of  suicide  when 
he  falls  into  possession  of  a  piece  of  wild  ass's  skin, 
a  magical  charm,  which  is — well,  you  remember 
Aladdin's  lamp?" 

"Yes,  saw  a  play  of  it  once.  Play  wasn't  much, 
but  the  ballet  was  out  of  sight.  I  expect  the  Skin 
gave  the  Frenchman  whatever  he  wanted,  didn't 
it?" 

"Yes,  but  with  a  difference.  Raphael — that  was 
the  sweep's  name,  and  a  full-blooded  sweep  he  was, 
too,  with  no  sand  in  him — Raphael  can  get  anything 
he  wishes  from  the  Skin;  but  with  every  granted 
wish  the  Skin  shrinks.  When  it  is  all  gone — that's 
the  end  of  him.  So  he  gets  fame  and  wealth  and 
love — and  dies  horribly,  in  a  little  while." 

"Why  didn't  he  stop  wishing?" 

"H«e  did  try;  but  he  couldn't  stop.  None  of  us 
can.  He  was  a  selfish  cur,  and  I  didn't  in  the  least 
sympathize  with  him.  Neither  did  I  especially  take 
in  the  allegory.  But  I  do  now.  You  see,  the 
greater  the  wish,  the  more  the  Skin  shrank.  And 
it  is  the  same  with  us  all.  The  bigger  the  thing  we 


262  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

try  to  do,  and  the  more  intense  our  own  feeling,  the 
more  we  have  to  pay.  I  tried  to  help  turn  the  world 
upside  down.  It  was  too  big  for  me ;  but  I  am  pay 
ing  now,  and  it's  a  big  price!" 

"Look  here,  Ivan,  you  are  getting  daffy." 

"If  one  could  undo  anything!  But  one  never 
can—" 

"Well,  you  and  I,  together,  can  do  considerable 
to  help  Bloker.  One  thing,  let's  get  a  good  square 
meal  inside  him  before  to-night."  Johnny  bright 
ened.  He  began  to  discuss  ways  and  means  of  help 
with  Billy.  It  was  a  pity  the  poor  chap  hadn't 
waited.  But  Billy  would  persuade  him  to  give  up 
scabbing  for  Wethers.  They  would  get  him  a  job. 
All  the  way  into  the  city  Johnny  was  making  plans ; 
he  did  not  look  up  once  at  the  white  towers  and 
golden  dome  of  the  West's  dream  of  beauty  as  the 
train  passed  them.  They  were  growing  a  bit  dis 
colored  and  shabby  now,  and  there  were  piteous 
charred  gaps  where  graceless  tramps  had  destroyed 
their  shelter,  either  through  carelessness  or  wanton 
brutality.  But  still  unconquered,  that  stately  and 
lavish  architecture  held  its  wonderful  sky-line 
against  the  pale  November  sky.  Billy  felt  a  thrill 
and  drew  a  long  breath  of  approbation  over  his  own 
delight. 

"I'm  coming  on,"  sighed  Billy.  "Great  Scott!  I 
can  remember  when  I  thought  a  mansard  roof  was 
stylish.  I'm  a  long  way  from  those  days." 

He  wanted  to  talk  about  the  trips  Johnny  and  he 
had  taken  to  the  Exposition  together,  but  after  a 
single  eye-blink  at  his  friend's  moody  profile  he 
shook  his  head.  "He'll  have  to  have  it  put  with 


PEAU   DE   CHAGRIN  263 

himself,"  said  Billy.  "Well,  he's  got  to,  and  I  can't 
help  him.  Damn  it !" 

He  looked  at  Johnny  with  that  admixture  of  wor 
ship  and  familiar,  protecting  affection  which  is 
about  as  unstained  an  emotion  as  our  weak  and 
complex  human  nature  allows.  Johnny,  to  him, 
was  not  only  the  most  beautiful  and  noble  gentle 
man  in  the  world  and  a  leader  by  divine  right;  he 
was  the  creature  who  needed  him,  Billy  Bates,  the 
most,  as  well  as  the  one  who  helped  him  the  most. 
His  own  elation  of  mood  vanished  in  a  compassion 
so  keen  that  it  irritated  him. 

"Suffering!  Suffering  like  hell,  all  the  time,"  he 
raged  inwardly,  "and  he's  got  to.  He's  got  to  find 
out  we  ain't  a  bit  more  saints  than  his  own  sort. 
We're  all  cut  out  of  the  same  piece,  pants  and  coat. 
The  under-dog  would  chaw  the  top  one's  throat  if 
he  could;  'tain't  a  sweet  disposition's  got  him 
under!" 

So,  unmolested,  Johnny  sat,  his  head  on  his 
breast ;  nor  did  he  speak  once  until  the  magic  of  art 
was  displaced,  first  by  the  commonplace  comfort  of 
the  better-class  residence  section,  and  then  by  the 
grimy  ugliness  of  the  work-a-day  part  of  the  down 
town  streets. 

He  followed  Billy  passively  out  of  the  train  and 
down  the  stairs  of  the  station  platform,  but  turned 
sharply  on  the  last  step,  with  a  low-spoken  but 
staccato  query :  "You  don't  suppose  Tyler  would 
get  the  meeting  put  ahead  half  an  hour  so's  to  down 
me  before  I  got  there  ?" 

"What's  that?"  said  Billy  sharply. 

"He   told   me   it  would   be   at   eleven-thirty   at 


264  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

Einert's  place/'  Johnny  explained.  "Did  you  get 
any  word  ?" 

"I  only  came  this  morning,  unexpected  and  un 
welcome,  I  guess.  I  go  anywhere,  you  know.  I 
took  your  word  for  the  time.  But  Tyler  is  up  {o  all 
sorts  of  dirty  dodges." 

They  discovered  that  their  suspicions  did  Tyler 
no  injustice  when  they  reached  the  room  above  the 
saloon  where  the  meeting  of  the  committee  was  to 
take  place.  A  crowd  of  men  waited  outside  in  the 
undetermined  hope  of  some  news  which  always  ani 
mates  strikers. 

Johnny  fancied  that  in  spite  of  their  truculent  talk 
they  were  secretly  hoping  for  a  recommendation  of 
peace.  With  a  throb  of  admiration,  Billy  noted  the 
instant  change  in  Johnny's  own  bearing.  He  was 
smiling,  cheerful,  friendly. 

"Do  you  get  on  to  one  thing,  Ivan?"  Billy  whis 
pered,  as  they  neared  the  door  of  a  closed  room  on 
the  third  story;  "the  fellers  here  are  the  peaceful 
crowd,  mostly  married  men.  The  tough  guys  have 
got  their  tip  and  are  off  raising  hell  somewhere.  I 
wish  I  knew  where." 

By  this  they  were  in  the  hall  amid  a  crowd,  star 
ing  at  a  closed  door  which  ppened  immediately. 
There  came  out  a  stout  man  with  bright  blue  eyes 
and  a  head  cropped  so  closely  that  it  was  a  soft 
mouse-color  and  wrinkled  in  the  back. 

"Hullo,  Bates,  you  come  to  help  us  out?"  cried 
the  man,  a  business  agent  for  the  molders'  local  to 
which  Wethers'  men  belonged,  a  good-natured, 
shrewd  fellow,  who  did  his  best  to  steer  his  own 
craft  in  troublous  waters.  His  name  was  Conrad; 


PEAU  DE   CHAGRIN  265 

he  was  of  American  birth  but  German  parentage. 
He  looked  rather  suspiciously  from  Billy  to 
Johnny. 

Billy  greeted  Conrad  cordially,  but  the  next  man 
who  came  out  he  addressed  formally  as  "Mr.  Tyler." 
"Well,  what  have  you  decided,  Mr.  Tyler?"  said  he. 

"Oh,  the  strike's  on,  all  right,"  replied  Tyler, 
striking  a  match  on  the  sole  of  his  shoe  in  order  to 
light  his  cigar.  The  shoes  were  varnished,  his 
clothes  were  new,  his  linen  shone;  he  looked  sleek 
and  prosperous;  Johnny  thought  of  Bloker,  shabby 
and  disheartened,  risking  his  bones  that  moment  in 
some  striker's  place,  that  he  might  earn  a  few  dol 
lars. 

"The  boys  will  be  disappointed,  won't  they?"  said 
Billy  mildly. 

"I  think  they  will,"  said  Conrad. 

"They've  got  the  remedy  in  their  own  hands  if 
they  want  to  surrender,"  Tyler  observed  carelessly; 
"I'm  not  a  quitter  myself," — and  Billy,  close  to 
Johnny,  gave  him  an  imperceptible  nudge  to  call  his 
attention  to  this  preparation  for  the  future  on  the 
labor  diplomat's  part. 

"Unless  it's  worth  your  while,"  sneered  Johnny — 
which  Billy  justly  assured  him  afterward  was  rank 
folly;  but  he  was  angry  past  weighing  his  words, 
just  then. 

Tyler  seemed  as  if  he  had  not  heard  the  words; 
his  features  were  behind  a  cloud  of  smoke ;  he  only 
puffed  a  degree  harder  on  his  cigar. 

"You  didn't  even  make  them  a  proposition?" 
asked  Johnny  of  Conrad,  who  merely  shook  his 
head. 


266  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

"Course  not ;  they'd  know  we  was  weakening" — 
this  came  from  a  big,  black-browed  admirer  of 
Tyler's.  His  name  was  Reilly ;  he  was  the  president 
of  the  blacksmiths'  local ;  he  was  personally  honest, 
but  of  a  sensitive  and  pugnacious  vanity.  Before 
Johnny  found  his  measure,  he  had  made  fun  of  a 
pet  scheme  of  Reilly' s,  thereby  earning  his  ill-will. 
"We've  found  out  they've  got  a  new  contract,  and 
they  zvant  to  run." 

"Not  enough  to  keep  wages  fifteen  per  cent,  higher 
than  they  need,"  said  Johnny;  "besides,  they've  got 
some  men  now." 

"Scabs,"  sneered  Reilly,  "and  some  of  the  old 
bunks  and  the  apprentices." 

"They'll  have  protection,  whatever  they  are;  and 
the  public  will  stand  by  the  cops,"  retorted  Johnny. 
"The  company  will  win  this  strike,  and  our  only 
chance  of  getting  our  men  their  jobs  is  to  let  them 
come  back  now.  I  believe  if  you  propose  to  call  the 
strike  off  and  let  the  boys  go  back  Monday,  they'll 
take  about  all  of  them  back."  Johnny  was  very  much 
in  earnest. 

"Will  you  carry  the  proposition  for  the  molders?" 
asked  Tyler  with  a  grin. 

"I'm  not  eager  for  the  job,"  said  Johnny,  the 
red  creeping  up  his  cheek,  "but  rather  than  have  the 
strike  go  on  another  day,  I'll  take  it  now." 

"They  kicked  you  out  of  the  shop  when  you  went 
to  talk  to  them,  didn't  they?"  said  the  chairman  of 
the  committee.  It  was  composed  of  representatives 
of  the  various  striking  trades  employed  in  the  fac 
tory.  He  was  secretary  of  the  machinists,  a  ready, 
shrewd  man,  not  top  scrupulous,  and  very  close  to 


PEAU   DE   CHAGRIN  267 

Tyler.  He  shot  a  keen  glance  at  Johnny  as  he 
spoke.  Tyler  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"They  tried  to,"  returned  Johnny,  who  seemed 
amused  rather  than  abashed;  but  Billy's  mellow, 
rotund  voice  struck  in  for  the  first  time,  although 
his  eyes  and  ears  had  been  busy. 

"Yes ;  the  old  man  had  three  regular  toughs  who 
call  themselves  plain  clothes  men.  He  got  himself 
in  a  wax,  and  told  Galitsuin  he  couldn't  go  through 
the  shops.  Galitsuin  was  simply  bearing  the  answer 
after  fighting  against  it ;  he  was  against  striking,  all 
the  while;  but  the  old  fellow  for  some  reason  was 
mad's  a  hatter.  He  may  have  heard  some  lies  about 
Ivan," — without  malice  or  apparent  intention,  Billy 
looked  at  Tyler — "so  they  had  a  scrap;  but  Ivan 
carromed  one  of  the  guys  against  the  other,  and 
gave  the  other  guy  a  job  for  his  dentist  before  he 
jumped  out  of  the  window.  Take  it  all  together,  I 
guess  they  hadn't  anything  to  brag  of." 

Conrad  and  another  man  laughed;  not  so  Tyler 
or  his  two  allies ;  and  the  chairman  judged  Galitsuin 
to  have  been  insulted. 

"It  makes  no  difference.  I'm  not  in  this  business 
for  my  health,  and  a  few  biffs  don't  cut  any  ice," 
said  Johnny.  "It  isn't  the  question  whether  I  was 
insulted — " 

"The  union  was  insulted,"  Reilly  burst  in,  "or 
ganized  labor  was  insulted.  We  had  ought  to  re 
sent  that—" 

"We  can't  hunt  up  insults  when  our  men's  fam 
ilies  are  down  to  dry  bread  and  a  potato  apiece  for 
the  day!"  retorted  Johnny.  "I  haven't  a  word  to 
say  for  the  Wethers';  they  are  anything  you  like. 


268  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

And  I  hope  I  get  a  chance  to  hold  them  up  some 
time.  But  they've  got  the  drop  on  us  now.  Our 
men  have  been  out  three  weeks ;  we  haven't  a  cent  in 
the  treasury ;  we  haven't  had  for — not  since  Wednes 
day,  anyhow.  What's  the  use  ?" 

Conrad  looked  uncomfortable;  the  others  ex 
changed  glances.  The  hall  was  filling  up  with  men. 
They  did  not  say  much,  but  their  murmurs  were  not 
of  approval  of  the  committee. 

"Well,  we've  another  meeting  to-morrow,"  said 
the  chairman.  "Wethers  may  see  a  great  light  be 
fore  then." 

"I'm  convinced  they're  with  Tyler,  too,"  Johnny 
muttered  in  Billy's  ear ;  "maybe  not  Conrad ;  but  the 
others  are  greased,  too,  damn  them!" 

"Maybe  not,  maybe  not,"  soothed  Billy.  "I'm 
getting  on  to  their  curves,  though.  The  strike  will 
be  called  off  by  Wednesday,  anyhow,  if  not  to-mor 
row.  Wally  is  putting  up  some  sort  of  a  bluff  to 
bring  Wethers  to  his  terms.  You  best  get  a  day 
off,  to-morrow,  from  your  loading  grocery  wagons, 
and  watch  'em.  You  can  out-talk  'em  and  out-fight 
'em,  but  you  can't  hold  a  candle  to  'em  playing  poli 
tics,  and  don't  you  forget  it!" 

"And  till  Monday—" 

"Well,  being  Sunday,  Wethers  won't  be  running 
and  there  won't  be  any  mischief — " 

"But  they  are  running  to-day,"  exclaimed  Johnny. 
"Billy,  those  fellows—" 

"Down  there?  Sure!"  cried  Billy.  "Why  didn't 
you  tell  me  before !  Let's  get  a  move  on !" 

Johnny  was  hurrying  after  him  when  he  was  ar 
rested  by  a  decent,  elderly  man  who  caught  at  his 


PEAU  DE   CHAGRIN  269 

sleeve.  "I  jest  want  to  ask  you  in  confidence,  is 
there  any  show  for  them  calling  the  strike  off?"  he 
whispered.  "My  woman's  real  sick  and  she  needs 
things ;  if  I  knowed  for  sure  it  was  to  be  called  off, 
I'd  raise  a  bit  of  money  and  git  a  bunch  of  grapes 
and  a  bit  of  bacon." 

"I'm  so  sure  it'll  be  called  off  to-morrow  or  next 
day  I'll  lend  you  a  dollar,"  said  Johnny. 

His  face  wore  a  tiny  smile  as  he  joined  Billy. 

"I'd  have  given  him  more,  but  I  think  it  belongs 
to  Bloker." 

Billy  merely  wrinkled  his  nose.  The  two  friends 
stood  out  on  the  car  platform,  and  as  they  ap 
proached  their  destination  the  conductor  illumi 
nated  the  situation. 

"Lively  time  at  Wethers'  this  morning,  I  guess," 
he  began. 

"What  they  doing?"  said  Billy,  between  puffs  of 
his  cigar. 

"Pulling  out  the  scabs,  I  guess.  Heard  they  'most 
killed  a  feller  last  night.  Well,  I  ain't  sorry.  If 
folks  won't  stop  scabbing  from  decency  and  regard 
for  other  men's  rights,  they  got  to  be  scared  out  of 
it.  Stop  here?  Listen  to  the  racket!" 

The  car  landed  them  on  the  corner  opposite  Weth 
ers'  shops.  It  was  an  unsavory  neighborhood,  filled 
with  mean  shops  and  lean  rookeries,  grimy  with  soft 
coal,  and  fluttering  the  ragged  laundry  of  the  occu 
pants  over  the  rickety  platforms  and  staircases  which 
made  fire-traps  in  the  rear.  The  signs  of  the  shops 
were  in  strange  languages  and  grotesque  lettering, 
and  a  polyglot  din  rolled  out  of  any  open  shop-door. 
iThe  uneven  pavement  was  diversified  by  a  few  raw 


270  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

piles  of  brick,  which  showed,  by  their  presence,  an 
intention  of  the  corporation  to  repair,  but,  by  their 
battered  condition  and  the  veil  of  mud  and  litter  over 
them,  the  remoteness  of  their  coming  and  the  uncer 
tainty  of  their  final  end. 

Over  everything  lay  the  shadow  of  the  great, 
dingy  bulk  of  factories.  The  foundry  chimney 
rose  out  of  the  pile,  volleying  black  smoke,  such 
as  a  raw  fireman  always  spouts  from  his  furnace. 
Sooty  clouds  hung  low  over  the  stained  thorough 
fare,  roaring,  now,  with  a  crowd  of  boys  and 
disheveled  women.  The  women  were  bareheaded 
in  the  sharp  air;  bare-armed,  occasionally,  as 
they  rushed  out  from  their  household  toil;  all 
feminine  softness,  as  well  as  feminine  vanity, 
ground  off  them  in  the  fierce  attrition  of  the  daily 
conflict  for  life.  The  boys  were  mostly  half-grown 
lads  who  had  learned  English  and  deviltry  at  the 
public  schools;  but  the  women  shrieked  out  their 
fury  in  their  native  tongue ;  wherefore  an  undistin- 
guishable  Babel  swelled  above  the  roofs,  pierced  con 
tinually  by  one  English  word,  "Scab !  scab !" 

"They're  at  it,"  said  Billy,  shrugging  his  shoul 
ders  ;  "they've  smashed  the  stockade." 

Johnny  had  seen  more  than  one  such  scene  of  mob 
passions  breaking  their  leash ;  he  looked  for  the 
center  of  the  storm  and  discovered  it :  one  man  with 
glaring  eyes  and  white  face  fleeing  before  a  crowd 
down  the  middle  of  the  street,  darting  under  horses' 
feet  and  worming  himself  between  wagons.  His  hat 
was  gone,  his  clothes  were  torn,  there  was  blood  on 
his  face,  but  he  ran  with  the  swiftness  of  fear. 

"Here!"   yelled   Johnny,    "here!     We'll   protect 


PEAU   DE   CHAGRIN  271 

you!"  All  the  while  he  was  forging  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  Billy  at  his  elbow. 

The  fugitive  turned.  His  eyes,  staring  like  bits 
of  glass,  went  to  Johnny's.  Whether  he  had  heard 
or  not,  he  suddenly  swerved  in  his  course,  dove  like 
a  rabbit  under  a  wagon  and  made  straight  for  the 
two  friends.  But  the  pursuers  were  hot  on  his 
heels,  and  the  leader,  a  lad  of  eighteen  who  worked 
at  Wethers',  in  Johnny's  own  shop,  sent  out  a  shout : 
"The  bricks!  Give  him  it  with  the  bricks!"  In 
stantly  a  dozen  hands  were  at  the  convenient  pile 
and  a  shower  hurtled  over  the  wagons.  More  than 
one  of  the  missiles  went  astray,  but  one  hit  the  mark. 
The  fugitive  toppled  over  at  Johnny's  feet. 

A  horse  was  plunging,  a  woman  was  screaming, 
and  Billy  Bates'  robust  tones  penetrated  the  con 
fusion,  calling  a  halt  to  the  fusillade.  Johnny  was 
on  his  knees  beside  the  fallen  man.  He  lifted  the 
head,  which  sagged  on  his  arm.  A  tiny  thread  of 
blood  trickled  down  the  matted  hair  from  one 
temple.  The  hair  was  red  and  stiff,  and  on  the 
features  was  fixed  a  ghastly  caricature  of  that 
twitching,  eager  smile  Johnny  had  seen  before. 

Billy  threw  a  glance  behind  him,  and  turned  a 
grim  and  white  face  to  the  nearest  of  the  crowd. 
"Keep  back!"  said  he.  "He's  dead;  you've  killed 
him,  all  right!"  Then  as  he,  too,  knelt  beside  the 
limp  figure,  he  uttered  an  exclamation :  "Hell !  If  it 
ain't  Bloker!" 

Johnny,  with  pale  lips  that  stiffened,  was  fumbling 
about  the  man's  ragged  shirt. 

"Only  one  shirt,"  muttered  Billy;  "ain't  he 
dressed  poor  for  this  weather?  Oh,  damn  them !" 


272  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

"Haven't  you  got  any  whisky?"  said  Johnny,  in 
an  even,  little  voice.  "Don't  you  worry,  Bloker ! 
You're  all  right.  We  won't  let  them  touch  you." 

"They're  skipping  fast  enough,"  muttered  Billy, 
"leaving  us  to  be  pinched.  Don't  rub  him,  Ivan; 
all  the  whisky  in  the  world  won't  help  him.  Look 
at  his  eyes !" 

Johnny  shifted  the  head  to  an  easier  position.  He 
did  not  speak.  Billy  looked  helplessly  about  him; 
half  the  crowd  had  vanished,  but  shops  and  win 
dows  were  full  of  them,  gesticulating  and  chatter 
ing;  and  a  black-haired,  white-toothed  fruit-vender 
was  volubly  and  politely  convoying  two  policemen 
to  the  scene. 

"Three  lives,"  said  Johnny  in  the  same  small,  dry 
voice,  "three  lives, — thrown  away  because  I  made  a 
fine  speech !  It's  a  good  deal  for  a  man,  who  tries  to 
be  decent,  to  carry  on  his  conscience  all  the  rest  of 
his  life." 


PEGGY 


CHAPTER    II 


Mueller,  the  shipping  clerk  of  Moulton  and  Com 
pany,  looked  up  and  squinted  his  eyes  dubiously;  a 
very  critical  man  was  the  shipping  clerk  in  those 
days  of  abundant  supply  of  "rooster"  talent ;  but  he 
liked  the  quick-witted,  athletic,  cheerful-tempered 
new  recruit  whom  he  suspected  both  of  another 
name  and  far  different  previous  surroundings. 
"This  morning  off,  Gleason?"  said  he.  "Why?" 

When  he  engaged  the  young  man,  he  had  won 
dered  to  himself :  "Is  it  a  newspaper  lark,  a  quarrel 
with  his  friends,  or  has  he  got  to  this,  spreeing?" 
Before  the  new  roustabout  had  been  with  him  a 
week  he  decided  against  the  last  theory.  "Reporter 
studying  us  at  first  hand  to  write  us  up  in  the 
Record  or  the  Herald'3  he  mused;  "but  he  never 
takes  out  any  pad,  and  he  doesn't  ask  questions." 
The  shipping  clerk  crossed  off  number  two  from  his 
mind.  "I  guess  it's  a  irow  with  the  old  man,  and 
young  mister  is  on  his  uppers  and  going  to  show  his 
stuff,"  he  decided  finally;  and  he  was  confirmed  in 
his  opinion  when  Johnny  answered,  "I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  but  I'd  rather  not  tell  the  whole  crowd. 
If  you  would  be  so  very  good  as  to  step  this  way  a 
minute. 

273 


274  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"It  is  only  this,"  Johnny  explained.  "I  worked 
at  Wethers'  works  until  the  strike;  I  opposed  the 
strike,  but  I  didn't  count.  I  went  out  with  the  boys ; 
but  I  couldn't  afford  to  stay  idle,  so  I  got  a  job  here. 
Now,  they  are  going  to  discuss  ending  the  strike 
to-day.  I  was  out  late  last  night  getting  the  boys 
together  and  having  them  come — " 

"I  thought  the  thing  was  left  with  the  Executive 
Committee." 

"It  was.  But  they  would  have  to  submit  any 
thing  to  the  whole  of  us.  And  if  I've  enough  back 
ing  outside,  they  won't  oppose  me.  I've  got  it,  too. 
But  they've  a  meeting  at  nine-thirty,  and  I  need  to 
be  there." 

"They  had  some  pretty  nasty  rioting,  didn't  they, 
yesterday  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Johnny. 

"I  suppose  they'll  take  you  back ;  so  really  it  don't 
matter  whether  I  give  you  the  day  or  not,  hey  ?" 

"It  matters  to  me;  I'll  have  to  take  the  day,  but 
I  don't  want  to  lose  this  job,  for  they  won't  take  me 
back." 

"Why?  Did  you  stir  up  the  trouble?"  The 
shipping  clerk  looked  puzzled. 

"No.  I  didn't  think  they  ought  to  strike ;  but — " 
the  smile  that  won  every  one  who  met  Johnny  flick 
ered  over  his  face — "do  you  mind  my  confiding  a 
bit  in  you  ?  The  fact  is,  early  in  the  business  I  got 
into  a  scrap  with  the  firm.  I  came  to  try  to  get 
some  agreement,  but  instead  of  getting  even  the  least 
little  concession,  which  I  could  have  used  to  persuade 
the  men  to  end  the  whole  racket,  they  wouldn't  give 
a  thing — convinced  me,  in  fact,  that  they  wanted  the 


A   "SCRAP"  275 

strike  as  an  excuse  to  get  out  of  a  losing  contract. 
I  said  something  they  didn't  like.  They  had  some 
Pinkertons  handy — we  had  a  scrap." 

"Who  licked?" 

"Both  of  us,  I  fancy.  I  jumped  out  of  the  win 
dow,  but  I  knocked  some  teeth  out  for  one  of  the 
Pinkertons." 

"I  see.  You're  persona  non  grata  at  Wethers'. 
But  will  they  take  the  other  men  back?" 

"I  think  so.  I'm  told  they  have  made  a  new  deal 
with  their  contracts,  and  some  fresh  ones  have  come 
in.  They  want  to  run,  and  they've  only  a  third  of 
a  force." 

"But  look  here,  if  you  don't  get  on  there,  and 
you  come  here,  will  you  be  kicking  up  a  row  here? 
It  wouldn't  be  very  bright  of  me  to  be  hiring  that 
sort  now,  when  I  can  get  my  pick.  Our  roosters 
ain't  organized,  but  you  might  be  organizing  them." 

"Ah,  but,"  suggested  Johnny,  "I'm  trying  to  make 
peace.  /  didn't  stir  up  the  strike;  I  got  into  hot 
water  myself  opposing  it.  All  I  want  here  is  a  steady 
job  until  I  can  get  something  better,  in  steel  or  as  a 
molder,  which  is  my  trade.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of 
me  as  a  mischief-maker." 

The  shipping  clerk  took  a  turn.  "Ain't  he  the 
slickest  chap !"  he  was  thinking,  with  a  sort  of  ad 
miration.  "What  is  his  little  game?"  He  wheeled 
on  the  young  fellow  suddenly  and  surprised,  not  a 
smile,  but  a  look  of  settled  melancholy  which  gave 
an  unexpected  twist  to  his  calloused  sympathies. 

"I  can't  quite  make  you  out,"  he  cried  sharply — 
the  more  sharply  that  he  was  touched ;  the  American 
sympathy  is  likely  to  be  irritable  when  it  is  not  hu- 


276  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

morous.  "You  can't  git  back  yourself,  you  say ;  yet 
you  want  to  pull  things  up  by  the  roots  to  get  the 
rest  of  the  push  back.  Say,  if  I  won't  let  you  have 
this  morning  off,  what'll  you  do?  Throw  up  your 
job?" 

This  time  Johnny  smiled:  "No,  I'll  take  the 
morning,  but  try  to  hang  on  to  the  job  till  you  fire 
me." 

"What  you  so  keen  about  freezing  on  to  your  job 
for?  You  ain't  married  nor  widowed?" 

"I'm  not.  But" — he  hesitated  as  he  looked  with 
a  kind  of  appeal  at  the  clerk's  shrewd,  city-hardened 
visage,  "I  do  have  some  kids  that  look  to  me;  the 
poor  fellow  who  was  killed  yesterday  left  three  little 
children,  and  some  of  us  boys  are  looking  out  for 
them." 

"You  best  not  go  into  the  dry-nuss  business  in 
this  town — you'll  git  too  much  on  your  hands !  Say, 
tell  me  one  thing.  Ain't  you  a  gentleman  ?" 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Johnny. 

"Didn't  you  have  a  pile  of  money,  once  ?" 

"I  did,"  said  Johnny,  "but  this  talk  is  in  confi 
dence." 

"I  guess  I  know  who  you  are,"  said  the  clerk, 
nodding  his  head.  "Allow  me  to  tell  you  you've 
been  a  damn  fool !" 

"I  suspect  as  much  myself,"  said  Johnny. 

"If  you  wanted  to  help  other  fellows  you'd  best 
have  hung  on  to  your  rope  to  pull  'em  up.  But  I 
guess  you'll  come  out,  some  way.  Mind  putting  it 
there?"  He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Johnny,  with  a 
little  flush,  clasped  it. 

"You  can  have  the  day  if  you  like;  but  say,  we're 


A   "SCRAP"  277 

pretty  rushed.  Load  that  truck  first,  will  you  ?  Get 
busy  there,  everybody !" 

He  did  not  know  how  gratefully  Johnny's  eyes 
followed  him,  but  he  marked  with  a  grin  the  mighty 
heaves  of  the  young  man's  muscles.  And  although 
Johnny  did  not  know  it,  he  had  made  a  good  friend. 

The  truck  was  not  long  in  loading  under  the  im 
petus  of  such  energy,  and  Johnny  found  he  had  time 
to  run  to  the  meeting,  saving  his  car-fare.  The 
exercise  of  minute  economies  had  lost  its  savor  of 
novelty  and  become  habit,  but  this  morning  it 
pricked  with  a  fresh  zest.  How  well  and  how 
easily  once  he  could  have  helped  the  poor  little 
Blokers!  But  that  was  the  least  of  the  remorse 
which  had  robbed  him  of  sleep  the  night  before,  and 
which  he  doggedly  put  out  of  his  mind  until  his 
work  should  be  done.  It  was  beyond  him  to-day, 
however,  to  assume  the  blithe  mask  of  yesterday, 
when  he  walked  into  the  swaying  mass  of  men  at 
Einert's. 

He  returned,  gravely,  salutations  from  men  al 
most  as  grave  and  stern-looking  as  he.  To  this 
there  were  exceptions :  Tyler's  party  made  a  clatter 
of  jokes  and  laughter;  and  Tyler  himself  moved 
about  the  hall,  his  handsome,  florid  features  dealing 
smiles  and  his  big  fist  hammering  arguments,  jocose 
or  belligerent,  into  his  changing  audience.  Already 
Johnny  was  grown  quick  to  gather  straws  from 
men's  reticence  as  well  as  their  talk ;  he  marked  how 
Tyler's  hot  confidence  fell  upon  cold  gloom;  how 
his  hearers  edged  out  of  his  way  or  slipped  out  of 
the  circle,  or,  unable  to  escape,  returned  vague  and 
non-committal  murmurs  instead  of  applause.  These 


278  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

were  men  who  would  have  cringed  to  him,  alone; 
but  nothing  is  so  bracing  to  courage  as  company. 
Each  man's  known  defiance  emboldened  the  others. 
Tyler's  gang  couldn't  lick  them  all.  Besides,  they 
were  sick  of  the  strike.  They  had  begun  to  suspect 
Tyler.  And  they  had  found  a  leader.  Once  or 
twice  Tyler  shot  lowering  glances  in  Johnny's  direc 
tion,  but  he  made  no  move  to  approach  him.  On 
the  contrary,  he  imperceptibly  changed  his  own  po 
sition  lest  they  collide.  This,  too,  Johnny  marked. 
It  puzzled  him.  But,  had  he  known,  the  explana 
tion  was  simply  the  presence  of  Mr.  William  Bates. 

Billy  was  leaning  against  the  bar,  drinking  the 
sweet  white  soda-pop  which  had  become  the  stand 
ard  subject  for  jokes  about  him  in  the  daily  journals. 
He  made  no  pretense  to  total  abstinence,  but  no  one 
ever  saw  him  drink  anything  stronger  than  soda 
water. 

Billy's  garb  was  studiously  chosen  in  black  and 
grays ;  his  clean-shaven,  amiable,  entirely  unfathom 
able  countenance  was  serious.  Even  his  cronies  got 
no  more  than  the  flicker  of  a  smile. 

"This  is  bad  business,  gentlemen,"  said  Billy  be 
tween  sips.  "It's  no  affair  of  mine,  only  I  can't  let 
my  men  get  mixed  up  in  it." 

This  neutrality  and  the  neutral's  known  conserv 
atism  acted  as  a  magnet  to  the  older  and  colder  men. 
The  group  about  Billy's  innocuous  glass  swelled  by 
natural  attraction.  Forth  from  it,  in  thread-like 
undertones,  fluttered  sinister  reflections  on  Tyler. 
Not  Billy's  reflections;  Billy,  the  discreet,  simply 
listened,  shook  his  head  and  settled  himself,  morally, 
more  firmly  on  his  fence.  But  he  denied  as  little  as 


A  "SCRAP"  279 

he  affirmed ;  he  admitted  that  he  had  heard  things, 
how  true  he  could  not  vouch. 

"Who's  paying  out  all  this  here  stuff  'bout  Tyler  ?" 
finally  demanded  Reilly,  wedging  his  big  shoulders 
between  two  of  Billy's  listeners. 

"I  don't  know  who  began  it,"  returned  Billy,  cut 
ting  the  tip  of  a  cigar  with  much  nicety,  "but 
you  can  hear  it  all  round.  They  say  he's  greased 
or  he  wants  to  be,  and  he's  holding  out  till  they  come 
to  his  figure." 

"I  guess  we  ought  to  know  by  this  time  that 
Tyler's  all  right ;  he's  done  more  to  git  us  recognized 
and  git  decent  wages  than  any  man  in  the  union," 
snapped  the  blacksmith.  "I'll  say  that  to  anybody." 

"I  don't  know  what  he's  done,  so  I  can't  deny  it," 
answered  the  pacific  viceroy  of  the  molders.  "I've 
no  light  on  him  at  all.  Gimme  five  cards !" 

"I  guess  there  ain't  anybody  in  Chicago  but  knows 
what  Tyler's  done  and  how  he's  worked  and  sacri 
ficed  for  organized  labor." 

"What's  he  done?"  came  from  the  crowd  in  sev 
eral  sullen  voices.  One  elderly  man  said  that  one 
sure  thing  was  Tyler  hadn't  raised  wages — "  'cause 
look  at  'em !" 

"But  he's  kep'  'em  from  fallin'  lower,"  urged 
Tyler's  supporter. 

"Lord !  So've  I,"  said  Billy,  "but  I  ain't  sending 
out  a  brass  band  about  it.  You  make  me  think  of 
a  kid's  composition :  Tins  have  saved  the  lives  of 
many  people,  by  their  not  eating  'em !'  But  I'm 
glad  to  hear  you  say  these  stories  are  all  hot  air. 
Still,  I  guess  we'd  best  not  send  Tyler  by  himself  to 
dicker  with  the  Wethers  Company.  You'd  be  a 


28o  THE   MAN   OF   THE  HOUR 

good  one,  and  Ivan  Galitsuin;  there's  no  question 
ing  your  squareness." 

The  friend  was  not  beyond  the  shaft  tipped  with 
honey ;  he  vociferated  his  belief  in  Tyler's  impecca 
bility,  but  he  admitted  that  there  might  be  wisdom  in 
the  cautious  course. 

Billy's  further  persuasion  was  interrupted  by  a 
telephone  call.  The  barkeeper,  with  much  defer 
ence,  said  that  somebody  from  Fairport  wanted  to 
talk  with  Mr.  Bates.  And  Billy,  for  once  off  his 
guard,  betook  himself  to  a  long  and  baffling  wrestle 
with  a  man  whose  name  he  couldn't  gather,  and  who 
purported  to  come  from  Fairport  ("not  in  Fairport, 
no,  in  Chicago — came  from  Fairport")  and  wished 
to  relate  a  wondrous  tale  of  a  projected  strike. 
Three  minutes  sufficed  to  rouse  Billy's  suspicions, 
two  more  to  confirm  them  and  to  ring  off  with  a 
curt  excuse;  but  in  those  five  minutes  and  the  addi 
tional  two  which  may  be  allowed  for  transit,  some 
thing  had  happened  in  the  saloon. 

Tyler  had  not  avoided  a  clash  with  Johnny 
through  any  disinclination  to  fight.  Hitherto  he 
had  beaten  his  way  with  the  mailed  hand  (or,  to 
use  the  locution  of  the  street,  with  "brass  knucks"), 
and  he  was  not  minded  to  abandon  his  tactics.  He 
could  see  his  hold  on  his  followers  parting  like  a  cut 
rope;  "Gleetzin"  was  openly  and  carelessly  defying 
him ;  he  knew  only  one  way  to  quiet  criticism ;  that 
was  to  send  the  critic  to  the  hospital.  If  he  could 
pummel  Johnny  insensible,  he  could  pass  his  meas 
ures  and  keep  his  men  in  line,  even  with  Bates 
against  him.  He  needed  only  a  day  longer,  a  show 
of  antagonism,  and  Wethers,  who  was  wavering, 


A  "SCRAP"  281 

would  come  to  his  terms.  It  was  only  to  keep  Gleet- 
zin  quiet.  Nor  did  he  have  much  doubt  of  his  suc 
cess,  for  he  was  of  Homeric  prowess,  and  had  stood 
up  two  rounds  with  the  mighty  John  in  his  prime. 
Therefore,  the  instant  Billy's  soft  gray  hat  swung 
round  the  door-lintel  Tyler  made  straight  for  his 
man. 

"I've  something  to  say  to  you,  Gleetzin,"  said  he 
threateningly. 

The  bystanders  hushed,  as  if  by  an  incantation, 
and  stood  on  one  another's  toes  to  get  nearer. 

When  Johnny  perceived  Tyler  before  him,  with 
the  lust  of  battle  in  his  eye,  his  own  eyes  lightened 
and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  curved  slightly,  but 
he  inclined  his  head  in  all  courtesy. 

"I'd  like  to  understand  what  you  mean" — Tyler's 
tones  grew  rougher — "by  sneaking  around  insinu 
ating  that  I'm  a  thief  and  a  liar  and  trying  to  sell 
out  my  best  friends  to  these  bloodsuckers  ?" 

"I  suppose  I  mean  that  you  are"  said  Johnny  in 
his  gentlest  tone. 

Tyler's  blow  was  like  a  flash,  but  it  found  John 
ny's  guard,  not  his  head.  It  must  have  been  given 
with  too  furious  an  impetus,  and  thus  unbalanced  the 
striker — how  else  no  one  could  explain — for  the 
next  second  there  was  a  swift  rush  of  fists,  a  duck 
ing  of  heads,  Johnny's  left,  in  scientific  parlance, 
jabbed  Tyler  over  the  heart,  and,  as  he  countered, 
Johnny's  right  found  the  great  fighter's  neck  just 
under  the  jaw.  There  was  a  frightful  crash,  a  big 
man,  a  table  and  three  beer  glasses  tumbled  on  the 
floor  together.  The  table  and  the  glasses  were  in 
pieces;  the  man  lay  as  inert  as  the  wood,  covered 


282  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

with  beer  and  blood,  while  slowly  his  florid  face 
whitened. 

"You've  done  for  him,  by  hell !"  gurgled  a  brick 
layer,  who  had  seen  the  fight.  "He  can't  put  up  his 
hands  for  one  while !" 

"He — he  ain't  killed?"  hesitated  the  barkeeper, 
running  around  his  counter,  with  first  aid  to  the  in 
jured  in  the  shape  of  a  whisky  bottle. 

"No,  worse  luck !"  said  Johnny ;  "he'll  live  to  do 
plenty  more  mischief." 

"You  all  are  witness  he  struck  Galitsuin  first," 
called  Billy  Bates,  from  the  door.  To  be  truthful, 
Billy  had  not  seen  either  the  first  blow  or  the  second ; 
he  spoke  on  those  sound  general  principles  of  the 
conduct  of  life  which  the  natural  leaders  of  men 
follow  by  instinct,  and  which  serve  as  a  very  good 
proxy  for  experience.  He  had  not  seen  the  fight, 
but  he  knew  Tyler's  trick  of  getting  in  the  first 
blow,  and  he  knew  that  Johnny  fought  fair.  "Call 
you  all  to  witness,"  bawled  the  astute  Billy,  "this  is 
a  clean  case  of  self-defense." 

"So  'tis!"  cried  many  voices.  The  spectators 
stole  admiring  glances  at  Johnny. 

He  looked  indifferent;  he  was  indifferent.  To 
the  mood  which  had  held  the  lad  since  he  lifted  poor 
Bicker's  head  off  its  cruel  pillow,  Tyler's  slaying 
was  a  duty  rather  than  a  crime.  His  heart,  full  to 
bursting,  was  eased  a  little  when  he  saw  the  fo- 
menter  of  all  the  tragical  strike  lying  dumb  at  his 
feet.  His  color  did  not  turn  nor  did  his  expression 
change.  An  electric  tingle  of  fear  of  the  soft- 
spoken,  gentle  fellow  stirred  the  beholders.  They 
•liked  him  for  his  generosity  and  his  courage;  but 


A   "SCRAP"  283 

they  admired  him  to  the  verge  of  awe  for  his  cal 
lousness  to  bloodshed. 

"He  don't  give  a  damn  whether  he's  killed  him  or 
not,"  one  man  whispered  to  another.  "Wally's  met 
his  match  at  last/'  sniggered  the  bricklayer.  What 
ever  the  resentment  of  the  Tyler  men,  it  did  not  lead 
them  to  reprisals,  legal  or  otherwise;  and  any  sym 
pathy  was  blunted  by  Tyler's  showing  plain  signs 
of  life  under  the  barkeeper's  skilful  ministrations 
with  cold  water  and  whisky.  Billy  looked  on. 

"I  guess  he  got  what  was  coming  to  him,  all 
right,"  observed  the  sagacious  neutral,  "and  if  I 
was  you,  Carl," — to  the  barkeeper — "I'd  get  him 
off  before  the  police  get  on  to  the  scrimmage." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Johnny,  "I  think  it  is  time  for 
your  meeting." 

"I'll  bet  you  a  dollar  to  a  nickel  the  strike's  called 
off,"  was  the  sentence  Billy  heard  before  he  left  the 
room.  But  there  were  no  takers,  and  the  result 
justified  the  wisdom  of  the  better.  Within  the  hour 
the  committee  waited  on  Wethers;  within  an 
other  hour  the  general  meeting  had  accepted  the 
manufacturers'  terms.  As  Johnny  halted  on  the  side 
walk  for  his  street-car,  a  hack  drove  away  from 
Einert's  private  rooms,  and  there  flashed  past  him 
Tyler's  pale  and  sullen  face. 

"In  some  ways,  Ivan,"  said  Billy,  linking  arms, 
"it's  kinder  a  pity  you  didn't  kill  that  skunk;  he's 
going  to  give  us  the  devil  of  a  time  yet !" 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    POWERS    OF   DARKNESS 

The  misery  of  the  months  which  followed  the 
Wethers'  strike  neither  time  nor  happiness  ever  ef 
faced  for  Johnny.  Remorse  stamps  the  soul  deep 
with  its  sinister  hall-mark.  Never  again,  although 
his  perfect  health  and  his  natural  elasticity  of  hope 
restored  him  to  daily  cheerfulness,  was  life  the  same 
light-hearted  thing  to  him.  He  was  caught  in  that 
awful  mesh  of  the  evil  consequences  of  the  action 
of  good  intent,  which  has  bewildered  conscience  and 
made  the  unhappy  "follower  of  the  gleam"  doubt 
God  Himself. 

Could  a  mistake,  an  honest  mistake,  be  accounted 
to  a  man  for  worse  than  sin?  Rash  he  might  have 
been,  he  was ;  impatient,  not  strong  enough  to  wait ; 
all  sorts  of  idiotic  dreamer;  but  not  selfish  or 
cruel  or  base ;  yet  did  the  men  whom  he  knew, — the 
careless  sinners  of  his  college  days,  who  sought  the 
desire  of  the  eye  and  the  delights  of  the  flesh  at  any 
cost  to  their  people  at  home,  who  were  toiling  and 
stinting  for  them, — did  they  suffer  as  he  did  ?  They 
couldn't.  And  Tyler,  who  lied  and  stole  and  dipped 
his  hands  in  blood,  did  he  suffer  ?  Not  a  pang. 

"It  is  not  just!"  groaned  the  wretched  boy  in 
284 


THE   POWERS   OF   DARKNESS  285 

those  terrible  nights  which  would  come,  unless  he 
was  so  exhausted  that  he  could  not  help  sleeping. 

One  circumstance  added  incalculably  to  his  tor 
ture.  He  was  never  free  from  a  view  of  the  conse 
quences  of  his  folly.  The  first  impulsive  movement 
of  his  remorse  was  to  assume  the  charge  of  Bicker's 
children.  He  was  not  earning  enough  to  support 
them,  away.  By  boarding  himself  with  Mrs.  De- 
laney,  who  had  befriended  the  children,  he  could  see 
to  them  far  more  efficiently  and  at  less  cost.  He 
did  not  consider  the  consequences  to  himself,  nor 
could  Billy,  who  was  more  far-sighted,  dissuade 
him. 

"You'll  be  jest  like  those  pilgrim  guys," — Billy's 
journey  to  the  higher  education  was  now  leading 
him  through  the  Crusades,  in  his  leisure  hours — 
"who  used  to  wear  sackcloth  and  put  peas  in  their 
boots;  didn't  do  a  mite  of  good,  but  made  them 
bloody  uncomfortable  every  minute.  You'll  be  hear 
ing  about  Bloker  all  the  time,  and  you  won't  make 
them  stop  talking,  because  you'll  think  they  mustn't 
forget  their  father.  I  tell  you,  Ivan,  it  won't  work; 
it  would  be  safer  to  take  to  drink." 

"It's  all  I  can  do  for  him,"  said  Johnny,  "and 
don't  row  me,  else  I'll  get  so  I  can't  talk  to  you 
about  it.  And  you're  the  only  one."  The  little  muf 
fling  of  his  voice  which  was  not  a  quiver,  because 
he  held  it,  in  time,  quite  routed  Billy. 

Johnny  moved  his  trunk  and  bath-tub  to  Mrs. 
Delaney's  that  night.  Billy's  only  grain  of  consola 
tion  was  that  Johnny  had  agreed  to  let  him  contrib 
ute  to  the  children's  maintenance.  Had  he  known 
it  he  might  have  claimed  another ;  he  was  more  help 


286  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

than  he  or  Johnny  himself  realized  at  the  time,  be 
cause  he  insisted  on  Johnny's  talking  out  his  black 
thoughts.  "They  won't  hurt  me,"  he  urged,  "I 
haven't  been  to  church  since  my  poor  mother  died, 
I'm  tough  and  you  can't  shock  me." 

He  used  to  spend  a  deal  of  thought,  himself,  on 
the  situation,  trying  to  work  it  out  logically  enough 
to  appease  what  he  once  called  Johnny's  "terrible 
Russian  imagination." 

"They're  so  damn  logical,  but  haven't  got  good 
sense,"  he  would  grumble;  "now  look  here,  Ivan, 
this  is  how  I  look  at  it.  I  see  plain  enough  you 
can't  run  away  from  this.  You've  got  to  face  it  and 
count  every  rib  in  the  skeleton,  and  then  you've  got 
to  down  it,  once  for  all ;  smash  it  and  bury  it  away. 
Now,  here's  how  it  puts  itself  to  me.  Punishment  is 
what  comes  from  breaking  every  law.  Maybe  the 
feller  who  breaks  the  law  don't  get  it,  but  somebody 
does.  If  the  world  is  a  big  machine,  anything  that 
smashes  a  cog  will  make  trouble,  ^whether  a  man, 
who  means  to  make  mischief,  smashes  it,  or  an  in 
nocent  little  kid.  As  for  knowing,  we  can't  know; 
we've  got  to  find  out  to  the  best  of  our  ability,  and 
then  let  her  slide.  'Do  better  the  next  time,  and  not 
worry/  is  my  motto,  sonny.  Why,  hang  it !  the  only 
use  of  repenting  is  to  fix  your  good  resolutions  in 
your  mind.  There  ain't  a  bit  of  virtue  in  the  bare 
crying  over  things.  When  I  lived  in  Fairport,  there 
was  a  family  I  used  to  work  for, — weed  their  garden 
and  carry  coal  for  their  base-burner.  It  was  an 
awful  nice  family  and  there  were  two  little  girls  in 
it,  younger  than  me,  Sadie  and  Lily ;  Lily,  when  she 
did  anything  bad,  would  weep  and  howl  and  go 


THE   POWERS   OF   DARKNESS  287 

without  her  dinner,  she  felt  so  awful  bad ;  the  whole 
house  would  have  to  turn  in  and  chirk  her  up  a  little. 
Then  she'd  subside;  but  after  she  subsided,  she 
wasn't  especially  good, — just  same's  usual,  that's  all. 
Sadie  was  kinder  offish,  a  proud  little  piece;  she 
pretended  she  didn't  care  so  very  much  and  had  a 
good  appetite,  and  didn't  need  anybody  to  go  up 
stairs  with  her  nights,  but  I  noticed  afterward  she'd 
be  a  good,  minding  child,  and  think  up  things  to  do 
for  her  mother  for  a  long  while.  I've  often  thought 
of  those  girls.  No,  Ivan,  don't  use  up  your  energies 
feeling  bad ;  you'll  need  'em  all  in  your  business." 

"I  do  work  as  hard  as  I  can,  Billy,"  said  Johnny 
quite  meekly,  "and  I  don't  whine." 

"Sure!"  cried  Billy  heartily,  throwing  an  arm 
around  his  neck  but  restraining  a  desire  to  be  sym 
pathetic.  "For  what  he  needs  is  brace"  was  Billy's 
faith.  "Sure,  you're  sandy!  I  saw  you  playing 
blocks  with  the  baby  and  I  heard  your  funny  stories. 
That's  the  sort!  It's  only  skin  deep,  I  know;  but 
if  you  persevere,  you'll  find  it'll  work  in !" 

Billy's  homely  consolation  did  help ;  but  Billy  was 
away  much  of  the  time ;  he  had  been  elected  a  vice- 
president  of  the  molders,  and  the  district  head  of  a 
labor  union  leads  as  peripatetic  a  life  as  a  bishop. 
When  Billy  was  gone  there  was  no  one,  so  Johnny 
worked  the  harder.  Long  afterward  he  told  some 
one  who  loved  him,  that  neither  love  nor  religion 
was  the  salvation,  of  a  man  in  despair,  like  work. 

"Every  case  of  melancholia  needs  to  work  until 
he  perspires  freely,"  he  said ;  "perspiration  is  a  great 
moral  agent.  Billy  thinks  so,  too;  he  expresses  it 
succinctly,  but  rather  bluntly;  he  says,  'You  can 


288  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

sweat  a  lot  of  meanness  out  of  you !'  And  work  is 
a  wonder.  I  used  to  work  so  hard  I  couldn't  help 
sleeping.  And  Sundays  I  would  take  the  kids  to 
Lincoln  Park.  I  didn't  dare  go  to  church.  I  used  to 
mend  my  clothes ;  sometimes  I  helped  Mrs.  Delaney 
wash." 

Yet  there  were  days  when  the  heavy  and  weary 
weight  of  all  this  unintelligible  world  crushed 
everything  save  dogged  endurance  out  of  him. 
Once,  during  such  a  mood,  he  read  over  his  mother's 
last  letter;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  un 
derstood  it  before. 

"I  have  failed  as  she  failed,"  he  thought  dully. 
He  was  no  longer  angry  with  himself ;  he  felt  numb 
with  despair.  Yet  in  that  self-same  hour,  a  new  pur 
pose  began  to  stir  in  him,  for  he  felt  a  disgust  at 
his  own  apathy.  "My  father  would  want  to  kick 
me," — thus  he  scorned  himself — "well,  in  effect  he 
has  kicked  me  already,  good  and  hard !"  There  had 
been  a  long  time  during  which  he  had  resented  his 
father's  lack  of  confidence  and  resented  his  step 
mother's  assuming  to  guide  him.  When  he  left 
Peggy  he  vowed  to  sink  out  of  his  old  world,  be 
neath  the  wave  entirely.  Therefore,  he  had  taken 
his  mother's  name,  the  better  to  throw  in  his  for 
tunes  with  her.  His  father  had  disowned  him,  dis 
inherited  him.  Very  well,  he  would  accept  the  dic 
tum  and  live  his  life  according  to  his  own  conscience, 
not  another  man's. 

But  now,  having  let  the  idealist  in  him  go  its 
length,  the  reaction  came;  he  revolted  at  his  own 
impetuosity,  and  the  silent,  stubborn  resentment 
against  the  tyranny  of  a  dead  hand  began  to  flake 


THE   POWERS   OF   DARKNESS  289 

away  like  a  lump  of  coal  in  a  furnace.  After  a  while 
he  turned  to  the  study  of  his  father's  motives.  Per 
haps  it  was  to  save  him  from  mischance,  huge  and 
woeful  as  this  which  had  befallen  him,  that  Josiah 
Winslow  had  plotted.  Little  by  little  there  came 
changes  in  his  image  of  that  grim,  undemonstrative, 
strong  man,  whose  awkward  and  reticent  tenderness 
he  began  to  suspect.  He  went  back,  groping  through 
his  childish  memories.  They  showed  him  more  than 
he  expected.  How  many  times  his  father  had  been 
gentle  to  him !  Once,  on  that  tragic  journey,  after 
his  mother's  death,  he  had  fallen  asleep  on  deck,  and 
he  wakened,  wrapped  in  his  father's  rug,  his  head 
on  his  father's  shoulder.  He  lay  there,  embarrassed, 
yet  finding  a  certain  consciousness  of  rest  and  shel 
ter.  The  tears  which  he  had  shed  were  still  on  his 
cheek.  He  thought  it  the  wind  on  his  hair,  the  touch 
of  his  father's  lips  was  so  light;  but,  now,  he  did 
not  think  it  was  the  wind. 

"Pretty  bad  to  be  a  disappointment  to  him,  too," 
said  Johnny  wearily;  "not  a  thing  I've  done  but 
would  sicken  him — unless — I  wonder  if  he  wouldn't 
chuckle  over  my  downing  Tyler !"  By  a  swift  transi 
tion,  his  thought  went  to  another  phase  of  Wins- 
low's  conception  of  life  and  duty;  he  wondered  if 
his  father  would  not  detect  some  alleviation  in  his 
tragic  blunderings.  Might  he  not  take  some  such 
view  as  Billy's;  if  so,  would  he  not  find  his  son's 
nightmare  of  gloom  intemperate  as  his  former 
hopes?  Johnny's  first  gleam  of  comfort  came  with 
these  fancies.  He  found  an  obscure  satisfaction  in 
rating  himself  after  his  father's  manner,  giving  his 
father  the  role  of  judge,  and  repenting  to  him.  "Oh, 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 


if  he  only  could  come  and  whack  at  me  as  he  used 
to!"  longed  Johnny.  Often  he  thought:  "Peggy's 
the  only  real  person  in  the  world  who  would  under 
stand  why  it  dulls  the  pain  for  me  to  let  my  fancy 
run  away  with  me  so !  Oh,  Peggy,  Peggy !" 

Sometimes  the  homesick  yearning  he  had  for  the 
mere  sight  of  Peggy  so  goaded  him  that,  but  for 
the  Blokers  who  took  his  every  dollar,  he  would 
have  gone  to  Fairport  only  to  steal  a  look  at  her  by 
night.  He  believed  himself  disguised  enough  by  his 
dress  and  his  mode  of  life,  which  he  fancied  had 
battered  him  out  of  all  his  former  comeliness  (John 
ny  still  went  to  extremes  while  vowing  warfare  on 
them),  and  his  mother's  noble  name  had  been  cor 
rupted  variously  into  Gleetzin  and  Gleason,  while 
Ivan  was  docked-  into  Van ;  Van  Gleason  most  of  his 
mates  called  him;  surely  there  was  nothing  to  call 
the  attention  of  the  curious  in  Van  Gleason. 

Probably  it  was  at  this  time  that  the  plan  of  re 
moving  to  Fairport  began  to  shape  itself  in  Johnny's 
mind — a  mere  adumbration  of  a  plan,  now,  which 
had  not  even  the  shadow  of  detail,  but  which  never 
left  him. 

Meanwhile,  Billy  puzzled  over  his  friend's  case 
more  than  was  good  for  business.  He  used  to  seek 
counsel  of  the  wisest  of  his  acquaintances.  Here  is 
the  way  he  would  put  his  puzzle.  "Say,  suppose  you 
know  a  man  who  has  been  as  good  a  friend  to  you 
as  one  man  can  be  to  another ;  suppose  he  is  straight 
as  a  string,  never  did  a  mean  trick  in  his  life;  but 
terribly  conscientious  and  sensitive,  and  suppose  out 
of  sheer  good-will — and  ignorance — he  gave  some 
bad  advice  to  another  man,  who  took  it  and  came  to 


THE   POWERS   OF  DARKNESS  291 

smash  in  consequence;  in  fact  he  got  killed,  poor 
fellow,  and  the  first  man  is  about  distracted  over  it 
— say,  what  would  you  propose  to  pull  him  out  of 
the  hole?" 

The  wise  men — generally  magnates  of  the  labor 
unions — differed.  One  advised  going  to  a  new  town 
and  getting  a  change.  Another,  of  a  drastic  temper 
ament,  opined  that  getting  religion  or  getting  mar 
ried  would  be  enough  of  a  change  to  divert  from 
despair.  He  admitted  that  it  was  a  kill-or-cure  pre 
scription.  Most  of  the  counselors  believed  in  work ! 
"And  whatever  you  do,  Billy,"  said  the  youngest 
man,  "don't  let  him  try  to  drown  the  grief." 

"No  danger,"  snapped  Billy,  "he's  not  that  kind." 

"Many  mighty  good  fellows  are,"  returned  the 
other  quietly,  and  Billy  remembered  that  the  speaker 
had  won  a  hard  fight  against  that  enemy,  himself. 

"I  know  it,"  he  amended  in  penitence ;  "but  he — 
why,  he  went  to  college,  to  Harvard  College ;  I  guess 
he  had  wine  or  beer  to  drink  every  day;  he's  used 
to  it  and  yet  he  doesn't  care  for  it.  He  ain't  that 
sort." 

"Sentimental  lot?" 

"No,  sir;  he's  the  best  company  you  ever  saw,  and 
— you  ought  to  see  him  put  up  his  fists !  It's  simply 
lovely!" 

"Where'd  he  learn?" 

"College." 

"I  didn't  know  they  taught  anything  so  useful  in 
college,"  observed  Billy's  friend  thoughtfully;  "can 
he  make  speeches,  too?" 

"He  made  a  speech  that  would  get  you  to  jump- 
ing!" 


292  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR  " 

"He  must  be  a  kind  of  a  wonder." 

"He  just  is." 

"Nothing  of  a  organizer,  I  expect  ?" 

"He  euchred  Wally  Tyler  out  of  a  deal  he  was 
trying  to  make  in  the  Wethers'  strike." 

"So?"  said  the  other.  "I  guess  I'm  on  to  the  man 
you  mean.  He  doesn't  belong  with  our  crowd,  Billy ; 
try  to  steer  him  back  to  his  own  side ;  he'll  help  us 
more  there." 

"I  think  so,  too,  Hindman;  but  you  see  he's 
broken  with  his  folks  and  lost  his  money,  and  now 
he  thinks  he's  the  cause  of  that  unlucky  Bloker's  get 
ting  killed." 

"Sensitive  sort  of  man?" 

"Very." 

"Look  here,"  the  labor  leader  took  out  his  pocket- 
book  with  a  half-embarrassed  smile,  and  found  in 
it  a  printed  slip.  He  tendered  it  to  Billy. 

"Funny  sort  of  thing  to  carry  round  like  a  rabbit's 
foot,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "But  ever  since  I  fell  on  it 
in  a  newspaper,  I've  kept  it.  I'm  not  much  on  po 
etry;  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  fellow  that 
wrote  it;  but,  say,  it  hits  you  in  the  neck,  don't  it?" 

Billy  read  the  poem;  it  was  Henley's  immortal 
defiance  of  despair.  For  a  moment  both  men  were 
silent.  Billy  drew  a  long  breath. 

"That's  big!"  said  he  in  an  undertone  as  if  he 
were  in  church.  "That  man  knew  how  it  feels  to 
be  down.  And  yet — he  won."  He  repeated  softly : 

"'It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 
I  am  the  master  of  my  fate : 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul.'" 


THE   POWERS   OF   DARKNESS  293 

"Will  you  let  me  write  it  down,  Hindman  ?  That's 
my  friend,  exactly." 

"Take  it,"  said  Hindman,  "I  know  it  by  heart." 
Billy  carried  it  to  Johnny,  explaining :  "I  guess 
Hindman  knows  what  trouble  is  mighty  well.  He'd 
a  brother  he  was  saving  his  money  to  educate  and 
make  a  priest  of,  and  one  day  when  they  were  shoot 
ing  he  accidently  shot  him — killed  him.  Hindman 
nearly  went  crazy ;  took  to  drink  and  nearly  lost  his 
hold.  But  somehow  he's  pulled  out.  Everybody 
respects  him  now.  I  guess  he  knows  about  that  first 
verse  though : 

"  'Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  Pit  from  pole  to  pole !' " 

Johnny  finished  the  stanza : 

"  'I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul.' " 

"That's  the  stuff!"  cried  Billy,   "and  that  next 
verse,  too : 

"  'In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 

I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud. 
Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody  but  unbowed.' 

"That's  you,  Ivan!"    He  stopped  and  his  voice 
changed  a  little :  "Here's  the  summing  up : 

"  'It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 
I  am  the  master  of  my  fate : 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul/ 


294  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

"Ain't  you,  Ivan?"  he  said  affectionately.  "Say, 
you've  got  to  be, — for  me.  'Cause  you've  been  all 
the  religion  I've  got." 

"All  right,  old  chap,"  said  Johnny,  smiling.  "I 
will;  just  to  oblige." 

Yet  under  his  affected  lightness  he  felt  a  thrill.  A 
man  does  not  serve  honor  or  duty  or  his  country 
for  reward;  the  constraint  is  upon  him;  he  follows 
the  gleam,  and  if  it  lead  to  exceeding  narrow  ways 
and  the  final  plunge  into  night,  that  is  the  concern 
of  the  Powers  that  were  before  him,  not  his  at  all ;  he 
acts  a  man's  part  because  he  is  a  man. 

"After  all,  I've  something  left  to  lose,"  said 
Johnny;  "I've  been  a  fool,  but  not  a  coward;  my 
father  would  tell  me  not  to  begin  being  pusillani 
mous,  now  !"  He  took  the  little  worn  newspaper  slip 
thankfully,  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket,  wearing  it 
over  a  heart  only  less  sore  than  that  of  the  man  who 
had  sent  it  to  him.  "His  luck  was  worse  than  mine," 
thought  Johnny,  "I  ought  to  consider  I'm  not  the 
only  one." 

Meanwhile,  a  quarter,  whence  Billy  had  antici 
pated  excitement,  showed  none;  Tyler  was  very 
quiet.  Half-hopefully,  Johnny  had  expected  repris 
als.  None  came,  although  it  was  now  a  month  past 
the  time  of  the  fight.  No  one  molested  Johnny  by  so 
much  as  a  word. 

For  this,  however,  there  was  a  good  explanation. 
It  was  no  fault  of  Tyler's.  His  anger  burned  more 
fiercely  than  ever.  He  caught  a  heavy  cold  when  he 
went  out,  the  very  day  after  his  felling.  Johnny 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  cold ;  but  very  naturally 
Tyler  laid  it  at  his  door,  as  he  caught  it  tramping 


THE   POWERS    OF  DARKNESS  295 

through  the  rain  for  a  consultation  with  two  doughty 
followers,  who  were  to  help  him  "do  up  Van  Gleet- 
zin."  The  cold  turned  into  bronchitis,  so  Tyler  had 
plenty  of  time  to  stoke  his  wrath.  Considering  his 
purposes  for  Johnny,  it  was  rather  unreasonable 
that  he  should  make  it  a  cause  of  grievance  that  the 
latter  did  not  pay  him  a  visit ;  but  he  argued :  "If 
he  wasn't  meaning  to  fight  it  out,  he'd  have  sent 
round  to  see  if  I  was  going  to  pull  through  or  have 
the  pneumonia.  But  he'd  rather  I'd  die.  Then  he'd 
crow !  But  I'll  show  him  who's  boss  in  Chicago !" 

Harder  to  bear  than  the  blow  was  the  damage  to 
his  prestige  that  it  had  wrought.  He  fancied  that 
associates,  who  had  been  close,  neglected  him  during 
his  illness,  while  the  commonalty  were  lukewarm. 
And  the  election  of  officers  in  his  local  was  coming 
on.  He  wanted  to  be  president.  Some  stroke  was 
necessary  to  hearten  the  faithful  and  intimidate  the 
backsliders.  He  watched  his  chance  and  was  not 
long  in  finding  it.  It  came  in  the  first  week  of  De 
cember,  after  a  meeting  of  the  Federation  of  Labor. 
Conrad  and  Tyler  had  clashed  over  one  of  the  in 
numerable  efforts  of  the  socialists  to  drag  the  labor 
unions  into  politics.  Tyler  was  working  with  the 
socialist  wing  at  this  time.  Johnny  had  drifted 
further  and  further  from  them  during  the  year,  and 
he  gave  his  best  to  Conrad.  There  sprang  up  one 
of  those  unexpected  squalls  of  discussion,  to  which 
unwieldy  assemblages  are  prone,  and  which  may 
disconcert  the  craftiest  skippers.  Thus  it  happened 
that  Johnny  captured  the  floor  from  an  inexperi 
enced  parliamentarian  of  the  social  labor  party,  and 
succeeded  in  making  a  speech.  His  old  friends,  the 


296  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

socialists,  interrupted  him  continually;  but  he  kept 
his  temper  and  the  rough  and  ready  badinage  learned 
in  college  debates  stood  him  in  good  stead. 

"He's  no  workingman,"  yelled  a  socialist  Johnny 
knew  and  respected,  for  he  was  a  very  honest  man 
who  nearly  starved  himself  to  help  his  household  of 
faith;  "he  graduated  at  Harvard  College!" 

There  was  a  laugh ;  but  Johnny  brought  another 
when  he  retorted,  "Yes,  that's  true,  I  have  been  ex 
posed  to  education ;  but  I  only  took  a  very  mild  type. 
I  don't  know  half  as  much  as  the  gentleman  who 
interrupted  me.  But  he  is  a  doctrinaire  and  expects 
the  earth ;  I'm  only  a  practical  man  and  as  a  practi 
cal  man — "  He  plunged  into  his  argument. 

"I  see  your  finish,  Wally,"  whispered  one  of 
Tyler's  friends,  as  applause  and  catcalls  contended 
when  Johnny  sat  down. 

"And  I  see  his,"  said  Tyler  grimly;  "you  wait!" 

His  nearest  friends  exchanged  glances  and  they 
looked  at  each  other  again  curiously,  when  the  bal 
lots  were  announced  and  Tyler's  man  proved  him 
self  a  true  prophet  of  evil.  Tyler  simply  ground 
his  teeth,  rammed  his  .hands  into  his  pockets  and 
left  the  hall. 

His  departure  was  unnoticed  by  Johnny.  The 
light  had  faded  out  of  his  eyes,  and  he  sat  pale  and 
unmoved  amid  his  friends'  joyous  tumult.  Presently 
he  slipped  away  while  they  were  celebrating  their 
victory,  and  walked,  alone,  to  the  cross-street  which 
he  must  traverse  to  reach  his  car. 

Billy  had  cautioned  him  never  to  walk  alone  at 
night.  He  was  docile  under  the  warning  and  tried 
to  obey  it;  but  to-night  he  had  been  roused  out  of 


THE   POWERS   OF   DARKNESS  297 

his  apathy,  and  the  excitement  drowned  Billy's 
warnings  no  less  than  his  own  resolution. 

He  plunged  out  of  Clark  Street,  blazing  with 
electric  lights  and  gaudy  signs,  reeking  with  stale 
beer  steaming  through  the  iron  gratings  of  its  side 
walks  from  basement  restaurants,  and  roaring  with 
the  unnamable  din  of  street-cars,  horses  and  human 
ity,  into  a  shambling,  low-roofed,  ill-lighted  dwell 
ing-street  where  the  shadows  of  the  houses  de 
voured  the  feeble  space  illumined  by  a  single  gas- 
lamp.  The  street  was  so  lonely  that  he  was  the  only 
wayfarer.  It  was  so  quiet  that  he  could  hear  his  own 
footfall.  As  he  walked,  the  brief  elation  of  conflict 
and  oratory  fell  from  him ;  the  deep  abiding  melan 
choly  of  his  common  mood  asserted  its  rights. 

"How  little  I  can  help  them !"  he  was  thinking. 
"I  barely  hold  them;  I've  given  them  my  fortune, 
my  future,  my  chances  of  happiness,  my  peace  of 
mind,  even;  yet  I'm  an  alien  still.  They'd  like  me 
better,  they'd  believe  in  me  more  if  I'd  stayed  where 
I  belonged !" 

Just  in  front  of  him  a  shadow  fell  athwart  his 
path.  His  wits  acted  as  alertly  as  a  rabbit's;  he 
sprang  with  a  mighty  leap  to  one  side  and  a  man 
staggered  and  stumbled  on  a  thwarted  blow. 

"Put  up  your  hands;  we'll  have  it  out  now," 
called  a  deep  barytone  which  he  knew.  He  saw  the 
two  other  men  skulking  in  the  shadow.  When  he 
would  have  jumped  back,  one  of  these  ran  between 
him  and  the  street,  the  other  kept  his  place. 

"No  running  now;  stand  up  and  take  it,"  cried 
Tyler. 

Johnny's  coat  was  over  his  arm  and  his  knife  was 


298  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

in  the  pocket.  He  struck  the  guardian  of  the  road 
between  his  eyes,  ducked  the  blow  which  Tyler 
aimed  at  long  range,  and  put  enough  space  between 
his  assailants  and  himself  to  slip  his  closed  knife 
between  his  clenched  fingers !  Tyler  was  able  to  land 
two  blows,  while  the  smaller  man  danced  between 
Johnny  and  the  light.  Johnny  struck  Tyler  only 
once;  but  he  reeled  and  Johnny  gained  a  few  steps 
more  in  his  retreat  to  the  lighted  highway.  When 
the  second  man  would  have  stopped  him  Johnny's 
armored  fist  struck  straight,  first  at  his  arm,  then  at 
his  jaw,  and  as  he  fell  a  little  space  more  was  gained. 
Tyler  rushed  forward  again,  followed  by  the  third 
man.  He  tried  to  clinch,  but  went  down  before  his 
follower's  eyes.  The  third  man  darted  at  Johnny 
as  he  whirled.  Johnny  felt  a  sharp  prick  in  his  side, 
but  he  landed  a  swinging  blow  on  his  assailant's 
eye,  which  stopped  the  onset  for  a  second. 

Then  Johnny  ran,  ran  for  his  life.  Tyler  was  on 
his  feet  again  and  they  would  use  their  knives  if  not 
their  pistols;  it  was  either  to  get  to  the  lights  and 
the  crowd,  or  be  stabbed  to  death  under  the  shadow 
of  the  rotten  wooden  porches.  He  ran  as  he  never 
ran  on  the  track.  Something  whizzed  by  him, — 
what,  he  never  knew,  for  he  made  the  street  and 
hailed  a  car.  No  sooner  was  he  seated  than  he  real 
ized  what  had  befallen  him,  but  he  knew  enough  not 
to  ask  for  aid.  Tyler  had  too  many  friends  on  the 
police  force.  He  sat  in  the  car,  holding  his  arm 
tightly  against  his  side,  where  he  had  jammed  his 
handkerchief.  He  sat  until  the  car  reached  the 
corner  next  a  celebrated  hospital;  nor  did  the  con 
ductor  suspect  anything  wrong  until,  a  moment 


THE   POWERS    OF   DARKNESS 


299 


after,  the  pale  young  man  had  stepped  with  careful 
steadiness  off  the  front  platform  and  walked  up 
the  street. 

"Say,  Mike,"  cried  the  motorman,  "look  at  the 
platform ;  that  feller's  been  stabbed !" 

The  conductor  threw  an  experienced  eye  over  the 
boards  in  question. 

"That's  right,"  he  answered  carelessly;  "well, 
he's  got  his  nerve  with  him;  he's  minding  his  own 
business  and  not  troubling  the  police,  and  he's 
toddled  into  the  hospital." 

Nor  did  Johnny  come  out  for  a  month. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN    HOSPITAL 

A  hospital  is  a  quiet  place.  Suppose  one  to  go  to 
a  public  ward,  say  the  surgical  ward,  and  there  be 
the  only  patient  during  a  large  part  of  a  four  weeks' 
stay;  he  were  like  to  have  his  fill  of  lonely  gazing 
on  the  white-coated  walls,  and  white-spread  cots, 
and  white-shaded  windows;  of  the  fugitive  persist 
ence  of  iodoform ;  of  straining  the  ear  for  a  van 
ishing  footfall  on  the  rubber-deadened  passage 
without,, a  nurse's  smothered,  girlish  voice,  a  young 
house-surgeon's  important  tones,  the  soft  swish  of 
unstarched  skirts,  or  any  of  the  hushed  hospital 
sounds  which  awaken  out  of  the  silence,  at  first 
muffling  everything. 

Moreover,  in  such  a  case,  too  weak  to  read,  too 
poor  to  buy  privacy  with  its  consequent  allowance  of 
company,  seeing  no  visitors  except  on  the  bi-weekly 
visiting  day,  one  might  have  a  surfeit  of  leisure  to 
think. 

After  Johnny  passed  the  danger  point,  when  his 
mind  crawled  out  of  the  mists  of  delirium  and 
deathly  weakness,  when  the  pain  was  gone  and  the 
day  nurse  smiled  every  time  she  went  to  the  window 
with  her  thermometer,  he  thought  a  great  deal.  He 
lay  through  the  day  and  watched  the  morning  sun- 

300 


IN   HOSPITAL 


301 


light  flicker  a  diffused  prism  on  the  corner  of  the 
white  ceiling,  and  the  afternoon  sunlight  paint  gray 
and  violet  shadows  such  as  are  made  delicately  by 
a  water-color  brush.  He  used  to  puzzle  out  the  ob 
jects  in  the  ward  which  they  represented.  He  lay 
through  the  night,  and  when  he  wakened  he 
watched  the  grotesque  shadows  of  the  night-light, 
smudged  on  the  white  walls,  as  if  by  a  crayon  stub. 
If  he  closed  his  eyes  on  the  shadows,  he  drifted  back 
into  the  scenes  of  his  life.  In  his  delirium  he  had 
been  tormented  by  a  vast  longing  for  home, — he 
who  had  no  home.  He  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of 
the  nurse  by  his  appeals  to  take  him  home. 

"Please  let  me  go  to  my  own  room ;  I  could  always 
sleep  in  my  own  room !"  he  would  say ;  or :  "This  is 
a  very  pleasant  place  and  you  are  all  kind ;  but  isn't 
it  nearly  time  for  me  to  go  home?"  or:  "After  the 
doctor  goes  is  there  any  reason  why  I  can't  put  on 
my  clothes  and  go  home?  I  am  very  anxious  to  go 
home." 

Sometimes  his  sick  fancy  feigned  his  mother  in 
waiting ;  she  would  bend  over  him  and  kiss  him ;  he 
would  see  her  eyelids  half  closing,  in  the  way  they 
had  when  she  smiled ;  he  would  feel  the  cool  satin  of 
her  cheek.  For  the  most  part,  however,  he  did  not 
lose  his  consciousness  that  she  was  dead.  But  often 
his  father  walked  out  of  the  great  hall  to  the  portico 
of  Overlook  to  welcome  him.  Once  he  woke  out 
of  a  feverish  dream  and  smiled  and  cried:  "Why, 
father  dear,  I  thought  you  were  dead,  isn't  this 
corking!  Oh,  but  I  made  a  mess  of  things,  just  as 
you  said  I  would."  Sometimes  his  stepmother  would 
give  him  his  medicine  or  his  milk,  instead  of  the 


302  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

nurse.  This  did  not  in  the  least  surprise  him,  be 
cause  nothing  surprises  us  in  delirium  or  in  dreams ; 
but  he  said  once :  "You  are  very  kind ;  I  didn't  know 
you  were  so  kind/' — and  then  was  vaguely  worried 
by  the  suspicion  that  he  had  been  rude. 

"I  wouldn't  say  anything  harsh  to  her,"  he  ex 
plained  to  the  night  nurse ;  "you  know  I  wouldn't — 
why,  I  promised  my  father." 

Usually  the  night  nurse  was  Peggy;  not  the 
beautiful,  haughty,  grown-up  Peggy,  but  little 
Peggy  with  her  red  curls  and  her  temper,  his  child 
ish  comrade.  He  never  was  a  child  again,  himself; 
nor  did  he  ever  lose  the  consciousness  of  the  weight 
on  his  heart,  although  he  could  not  make  its  cause 
distinct,  and  several  times  said :  "It's  very  queer, 
Peggy,  very  queer,  why  I  am  so  unhappy ;  but  there 
is  a  good  reason  if  I  could  only  remember." 

With  returning  strength  the  visions  faded,  leav 
ing  him  the  lonelier  for  their  loss.  In  their  place  he 
had  his  relentless  questions.  There  was  no  narcotic 
of  work  to  stupefy  him. 

"I'm  up  against  it,"  he  told  himself.  "I  must  find 
some  way  to  brace  me  up,  or  I  shall  die,  and  I  have 
no  right  to  die — a  man  with  a  family  like  me!" 
Therefore  Johnny  lay  and  let  the  Anglo-Saxon  in 
him  have  its  word,  at  last. 

At  first,  no  one  but  the  shipping  clerk  at  the  gro 
cery  and  Mrs.  Delaney  came  to  see  him.  He  had  not 
sent  word  to  Billy.  Billy  was  in  Indianapolis  try 
ing  to  avert  a  sweeping  cut  of  wages  without  a 
strike,  and  Johnny  would  not  "bother  him."  There 
was  no  one  else  who  cared  enough  about  him  to  re 
quire  a  notification — so  he  thought.  Conrad  was  an 


IN    HOSPITAL  303 

ally,  rather  than  a  friend.  The  other  molders  were 
friendly  acquaintances  and  comrades  to  whom  he 
was  glad  to  render  a  kindness,  but  of  whom  he 
never  dreamed  of  asking  one.  Johnny  had  more 
pride  than  he  imagined.  He  loved  to  give  and  hated 
to  receive,  which  is  a  trait  of  the  young.  Either 
they  receive  quite  unconsciously,  as  their  right, 
since  it  is  the  business  of  the  elders  to  make  them 
comfortable ;  or  they  resent  the  oppression  of  a  debt. 
One  college  boy  will  borrow  so  long  as  his  friends' 
good  nature  or  ability  holds  out;  another  will  live 
on  "hot  dog"  and  oat-meal  and  pawn  his  overcoat, 
or,  worse,  his  dress-suit,  rather  than  ask  an  ac 
quaintance  for  a  loan. 

It  is  only  living  that  teaches  us  the  right  of  our 
friends  to  help  us.  Mutual  obligation  is  like  rota 
tion  of  crops  and  saves  friendship  from  sterility. 
But  Johnny  was  too  young  for  such  philosophy.  He 
deemed  his  misfortunes  of  no  importance  save  to 
himself;  indeed,  he  sent  word  to  Mueller  only  lest 
the  latter  should  find  his  absence  inconvenient.  But 
the  next  day  (being  Sunday)  he  was  surprised  by 
a  visit  from  the  clerk.  Johnny's  fever  had  not  yet 
appeared  in  serious  form,  and  he  was  allowed  a 
short  interview.  The  clerk  heard  the  particulars  of 
the  fray.  With  difficulty  he  compressed  his  feelings 
into  language  befitting  the  presence  of  the  nurse. 

"And  you  don't  know  who  knifed  you?"  he  asked 
at  the  end. 

"I  can  guess;  but  I  couldn't  swear  to  any  one's 
face,"  said  Johnny. 

"Then  you  can't  have  him  arrested.  What  are 
you  going  to  do?" 


304  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

"Get  well  and  thrash  the  man  who  put  up  the  job. 
Make  him  stand  up  to  me  with  his  two  fists;  drive 
him  out  of  his  union." 

"You'll  do,"  Mueller  approved,  grinning;  "say, 
how  are  you  fixed?  This  will  take  a  week,  most 
likely,"  (the  doctor  had  told  him  three).  "Can  you 
send  an  understudy  for  your  job?" 

"Yes,  I  know  a  pretty  good  fellow,  Mark  De- 
laney;  he's  young,  but  he's  tough.  I  board  with  his 
mother  and  she'll  be  glad  to  have  him  have  the  job." 

"All  right ;  he'll  keep  it  for  you.  I'll  take  him  on 
that  understanding." 

"You  had  better  let  him  have  it  for  keeps,  Mr. 
Mueller;  he  needs  it." 

"And  I  need  you"  grunted  Mueller;  "say,  an 
other  thing ;  how  are  you  fixed  for  money  ?" 

"Oh,  I  can  manage  that  all  right,"  said  Johnny, 
smiling.  He  thought  of  his  ridiculous  dress-suits, 
his  cravats,  his  frock-coat,  his  books  and  pictures — 
only  they,  were  in  Fairport,  and  he  could  hardly,  yet, 
ask  for  them  to  be  forwarded  him.  His  watch  his 
father  had  given  him,  and  his  studs  were  gifts  also, 
as  was  most  of  his  jewelry.  The  few  trinkets 
which  he  had  bought  himself  had  gone  long  ago; 
but  there  was  enough  left.  "Oh,  I  can  manage!" 
said  Johnny  cheerfully. 

"Better  sell  'em  to  me!"  growled  the  clerk;  at 
which  divination  Johnny  grinned  and  felt  the  better 
for  it. 

Mueller's  kindness  took  shape  in  more  ways  than 
one.  He  sent  the  Fliegende  Blatter  and  the  best 
grapes  in  the  market,  and  (though  Johnny  was  soon 
beyond  knowing  it)  he  called  daily. 


IN    HOSPITAL 


3°5 


Another  visitor  was  Mrs.  Delaney,  to  whom  John 
ny  intrusted  the  mission  of  turning  his  past  pomp 
of  raiment  into  cash. 

"I  will  if  I  have  to;  you  rest  aisy,"  she  replied, 
soothing  him  with  a  pat  on  his  hair.  'Til  git  a  whole 
lot,  I  know  that.  Now,  don't  yous  be  talking,  for 
you  do  be  raising  your  temperschure,  the  nuss  says, 
and  then  I  won't  be  let  to  see  you." 

The  next  visiting  day  she  returned,  and  he  ques 
tioned  her.  What  had  she  sold?  With  placid  men 
dacity  she  described  his  tuxedo  suit,  and  reported 
that  she  had  obtained  thirty  dollars  for  it.  "Dirt 
chape  it  was,  but  the  bloody  ould  Shylock  wouldn't 
give  a  cint  more.  Will  I  kape  it  or  bring  it  to  yous  ?" 
she  asked  with  calmness  to  be  admired,  in  view  of 
the  fact  that  she  had  but  two  dollars  on  earth,  the 
same  being  given  her  the  day  before  by  Mueller. 
But  Johnny  made  no  demands.  He  sighed  in  con 
tent  and  told  her  to  keep  it  and  see  that  the  children 
had  all  they  needed. 

"Sure,  I  will  do  that!"  said  Mrs.  Delaney.  She 
wondered  how  she  would  do  it.  Johnny,  however, 
slept  quietly  for  the  first  time  since  his  entrance. 

After  this,  for  weeks,  no  one  was  allowed  speech 
of  him;  then,  through  Mueller,  the  news  reached 
Conrad,  and  he  appeared  laden  with  sympathy, 
oranges  and  fresh  eggs. 

"Got  'em  in  the  country  myself,"  he  explained; 
"they're  reasonably  fresh,  I  guess."  He  told  Johnny 
that  Tyler  was  in  high  spirits  of  late,  and  that  he 
had  just  got  a  tough  friend  a  place  on  the  force. 
"Tyler's  got  a  big  pull  in  the  City  Hall,  some  way. 
The  boys  do  say  it's  the  same  man  knifed  you.  He's 


3o6  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

a  dog  named  Gweesip  Something."  For  years,  it 
may  be  added,  Giuseppe  was  a  terror  to  all  penni 
less  or  contumacious  evil-doers.  Finally  he  was 
killed  by  one  of  his  own  countrymen ;  why,  there  are 
doubtless  men  who  know ;  but  the  newspapers  have 
never  explained. 

"Does  Wally  Tyler  boast  of  doing  me  up  ?"  John 
ny  asked. 

"Not  exactly.  He  jest  laughs  and  says  you  were 
too  fresh  and  got  what  was  coming  to  you." 

Johnny  set  his  lips  firmly ;  he  didn't  speak.  Con 
rad  changed  the  subject.  That  night  he  wrote  a  let 
ter  to  Billy.  It  was  a  long  letter.  The  next  train 
brought  Billy  to  Chicago,  although  he  stayed  only 
half  a  day. 

After  Billy's  return  from  Indianapolis,  the  hours 
did  not  drag  so  heavily.  True,  Johnny  would  not 
let  him  hire  a  private  room ;  but  Billy's  influence  re 
laxed  the  hospital  rules,  the  more  readily  that  the 
nurses  and  the  hospital  orderlies  had  become  inter 
ested  in  their  patient. 

"He's  sandy.  That's  why  I  like  him,"  said  the 
ward  orderly  to  Billy.  "Ought  to  have  seen  him 
when  the  doctor  was  dressing  his  wound  and  prob 
ing  for  the  bit  of  knife  in  it — broke  off  sharp  in  the 
ribs,  you  know — pyrexia  threatened." 

"He  ain't  dangerous?"  cried  Billy.  "Conrad  said 
he  was  convalescing ;  you  don't  mean — " 

"Oh,  it's  out  all  right ;  but  it  was  a  close  call.  You 
look  rattled." 

"He's  the  best  friend  I  got  in  the  world,"  returned 
Billy  ironically,  "that's  all.  And  probably  not  hav 
ing  had  the  advantage  of  a  medical  education  like 


IN   HOSPITAL  307 

you,  I'm  easy  rattled  by  your  damn  technicalities. 
But  you  were  talking, — I  know  how  he  took  it.  Did 
everything  he  was  told,  never  so  much  as  said 
'cuss'  and  thanked  the  doctors  for  hurting  him.  / 
know." 

"Well  he  did.  He's  mighty  nice  to  everybody. 
You  ask  him  how  he  is,  and  he  always  says  the 
same:  'Pretty  well,  thank  you/  Did  all  the  while 
he  was  sick.  I  don't  care  what  kind  of  a  ward  he's 
in,  I  know  a  gentleman  when  I  see  him.  And  he's 
one.  Mrs.  Rand,  the  day  nurse,  says  the  same  thing. 
She's  from  Kentucky  and  she'd  ought  to  know." 

Obscurely,  Johnny  was  affected  by  the  kindliness 
about  him.  It  comforted  him,  in  a  small  measure, 
and  awakened  his  gratitude  in  a  large  one.  Before 
he  left  the  hospital,  he  made  Billy  fetch  some  of  his 
belongings.  He  gave  the  pearl  cravat-pin  to  one 
nurse,  and  some  sleeve-links  to  the  other.  They  had 
been  his  mother's  and  his  heart  contracted  a  little 
as  he  handled  them ;  but  he  was  sure  that  she  would 
not  ask  him  to  keep  them. 

"Nor  would  my  father,  either,"  he  thought.  He 
had  prepared  a  little  bundle  of  his  two  best  neck- 
scarfs  to  give  to  the  orderlies ;  but  Billy  espied  it  on 
the  bed,  and  confiscated  it  imperiously. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Johnny,  the  color 
rising  to  his  pale  cheek.  "Do  you  think  they  look 
second-hand  ?" 

"No,  I  don't;  they're  splendid,"  snapped  Billy; 
"much  too  splendid.  They  belong  to  you  and  you've 
got  to  keep  'em — and  wear  'em  Sundays.  You'll 
give  these  guys  this  box  of  cigars." 

"But  what  shall  I  give  you  for  the  cigars  ?" 


308  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

"You'll  give  me  a  civil  'Thank  you,' — something 
you  don't  seem  willing  to  give  your  friends  a  chance 
to  earn  from  you.  Now,  shut  up  and  don't  argue. 
I've  got  a  carriage  and  I'm  going  to  take  you  to 
ride." 

The  carriage  had  been  carefully  picked  out  by 
Billy,  in  person,  at  the  stable  of  his  choice.  "Coach 
man  in  livery  with  cloth  buttons,  and  no  number  on 
the  lamps.  Plain  and  handsome  like  a  private  rig," 
dictated  Billy. 

Johnny  was  properly  enthusiastic;  he  said  he 
felt  as  an  imported  duke  would  feel  going  to  be 
married. 

"Oh,  it'll  do,"  observed  Billy  carelessly;  "not 
half  as  good  as  you'll  take  me  to  ride  in,  if  you  fol 
low  my  advice." 

"What  is  your  advice  ?" 

"Gimme  back  my  word  not  to  peach  to  your  folks 
They'll  do  the  rest" 

Johnny's  lip  curled.  "I  dare  say.  But  don't  do 
that.  I  know  I'm  a  blooming  ass.  I  know  you've  got 
to  be  just  before  you're  generous,  or  you  won't  bs 
able  to  be  generous  very  long.  I'm  learning,  all  right. 
But  don't  call  in  my  stepmother  to  be  kind  to  me 
and  my  old  friends  to  tell  me  they  knew  just  how  it 
would  be,  and  they're  glad  I've  come  to  my  senses. 
I  nearly  drowned  once,  Billy;  the  drowning  wasn't 
hard,  but  coming  back  to  my  senses  was  the  very 
devil ;  I  fancy  it  is  always.  I  don't  care  for  an  audi 
ence;  I  like  to  be  off  by  myself,  so  I  can  kick  and 
swear  all  I  want !" 

"Mrs.  Winslow  isn't  that  kind,"  said  Billy. 

"I  know  she  isn't,"  Johnny  agreed  after  a  difficult 


IN   HOSPITAL  309 

pause;  "but  there  are  all  the  family  friends.  No 
doubt  they'd  improve  the  occasion.  No,  Billy,  you 
can  roll  me  in  a  barrel  and  stand  me  on  my  head  and 
thump  me  black  and  blue  all  you  like;  but  nobody 
else,  please,  old  man !" 

Billy  wagged  his  head  in  dismal  reproof;  but  he 
had  not  really  expected  success.  Most  likely  he  was 
only  after  a  bargaining  basis.  The  man  who  refuses 
the  large  demand  is  the  more  willing  to  grant  the 
small  one.  So,  at  the  tail  of  a  few  picturesque  re 
marks  about  fools,  he  came  to  his  real  purpose, — the 
loan  of  some  money  to  Johnny. 

"I  don't  need  it,"  said  Johnny  airily.  "I've  sold 
some  truck." 

Then,  in  a  flash,  doubt  smote  him.  "Has  Mrs. 
Delaney  been  fooling  me?"  he  cried ;  he  was  so  weak 
that  his  voice  trembled. 

"N — no,  she  hasn't,  she's  sold  a  lot  of  things!" 
Billy  stuttered  in  his  eagerness. 

"She's  sold  'em  to  you,  then,"  said  Johnny.  He 
turned  his  head  lest  Billy  should  see  the  tears  gath 
ering  under  his  eyelids. 

"S'posen  she  has?"  said  Billy  sternly — he  winked 
his  own  eyes  and  frowned  out  of  the  other  window. 
"Why  not?" 

"Because  they  don't  fit"  retorted  Johnny,  with  a 
queer  squeak  between  a  sob  and  a  giggle. 

"The  tailor'll  make  them  all  right." 

"He  can't.  You  won't  ask  him.  You  are  only 
pretending.  How  much  money  have  you  spent  on 
me  already?" 

Billy  folded  his  arms,  casting  a  haughty  eye  up 
ward  at  the  satin  tufting  of  the  brougham. 


3io 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 


"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care,"  said  Billy;  "if 
I  was  down  on  my  luck  you  wouldn't  know  how 
much  you  put  up,  nor  give  a  damn.  You  haven't  got 
the  right  to  refuse  to  let  me  do  for  you  what  you'd 
d9  for  me  in  the  same  case!  You  haven't!"  Billy 
repeated  almost  with  ferocity.  "You  insult  me! 
What  kind  of  a  damn  lop-sided  thing  do  you  take 
friendship  to  be  ?  Are  you  so  damn  much  above  me 
that  you've  done  everything  on  earth  for  me,  made 
a  gentleman  out  of  a  mucker,  and  you  won't  let  me 
do  a  thing  back!  Damn  you!'3  gurgled  Billy,  snif 
fling. 

As  South  Park  is  lonely  in  winter,  no  one  was  on 
the  drive  to  see  an  athletic  looking  but  very  pale 
young  man  lay  both  hands  on  the  slight  shoulders 
of  the  noted  labor  leader  and  try  feebly  to  shake  him. 

"Tommy-rot!"  cried  Johnny.  "Billy,  you're  a 
lovely  liar !  When  you  die  you'll  wheedle  St.  Peter 
out  of  passes  for  all  your  friends !  I  surrender ;  you 
shall  lend  me  the  money.  It'll  save  you  storage  on 
those  suits.  Only  don't  try  that  injured  racket 
when  you  know  I  love  you  better  than  any  man  in 
the  world,  and  you've  saved  my  soul  alive." 

"Oh,  rats!"  snorted  Billy.  "You  don't  be  mov 
ing  about  or  you'll  do  yourself  a  mischief ;  you  know 
you're  all  sort  er  wobbly  inside  yet.  Lean  back  and 
play  you're  the  duke.  Got  your  feet  on  the  hot-air 
box?  Let  me  tuck  you  up." 

He  covered  Johnny  as  tenderly  as  a  woman,  and 
his  heart  leaped  when  Johnny  gave  him  something 
like  his  old  merry  smile.  "You  are  chirking  up!" 
he  exulted. 

"I  am,"  said  Johnny  seriously;  "I'm  obliged  to, 


IN   HOSPITAL  311 

as  a  Southern  friend  of  mine  would  say.  Billy,  I've 
done  a  sickening  lot  of  genuine  thinking,  not  moon 
ing  or  dreaming  or  slanging  myself,  but  straight 
thinking  things  out.  And  it  comes  to  about  this :  if 
I'm  ever  going  to  be  able  to  look  Bloker  in  the  face, 
in  another  world — I  believe  there  is  another  world, 
Billy,  some  sort — or  look  myself  in  the  face  in  this, 
I've  got  to  do  better  by  Bloker's  children  than  he 
ever  could  have  done.  Then  he  ought  to  forgive 
me.  To  do  that  I  have  to  make  some  money.  I 
have  to  make  it,  even  if  I  abandon  plans  of  another 
sort.  I  shall  have  to  quit  reforming,  except  as  an 
ordinary  good  citizen,  and  go  to  hunting  up  cash, 
just  as  my  father  did.  He  started  with  nothing,  you 
know.  I  don't  expect  to  be  as  much  of  a  man  as  he 
was,  but  I'll  try  to  be  decent.  I'm  going  to  learn 
the  implement  business  in  all  the  branches ;  and  then, 
when  I'm  worth  their  taking,  I'm  going  to  ask 
Hopkins  to  give  me  the  job  my  father  would.  But 
not  until  I  am  worth  it.  And  so  I've  got  to  keep 
my  eyes  open  and  be  cheerful — or  at  least  be  as 
cheerful  as  I  can." 

"Good  zvork!"  cried  Billy  joyously;  he  had  ab 
sorbed  Johnny's  Harvard  slang  like  a  sponge.  "I 
knew  you'd  come  out  all  right." 

"You  remember  that  poem  of  Browning's  you 
read  to  me  yesterday,  Billy  ?" 

"Sure." 

"And  those  lines, 

"  'That  I  aspired  to  be 
And  was  not,  comforts  me/ 

"Well,  that's  my  case,   I  guess.     They  made  me 


3i2  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

think  of  a  remark  of  my  father's.  Some  busybody 
had  come  to  him  with  a  story  about  one  of  the  men's 
just  coming  out  of  the  penitentiary.  'We've  got  to 
judge  a  man  by  what  he  does/  my  father  said,  'but 
I  guess  the  Lord  will  judge  us  more  than  our  do- 
ings/" 

"He  kept  the  man?" 

"Oh,  yes.  He  worked  for  the  Old  Colony  until 
he  died.  He  was  a  very  decent  fellow." 

"Your  father  was  always  a  good  man  to  the 
poor,"  said  Billy,  unconsciously  dropping  into  the 
simple  phrase  which  he  had  heard  his  mother  use. 

"Yes,"  said  Johnny,  "he  was."  There  fell  a  si 
lence  ;  the  young  dark  eyes  swept  the  desolate,  wide 
spaces  and  formless  shrubbery  of  the  Park ;  but  they 
were  seeing  Overlook,  with  its  white  terraces,  and 
his  father's  rugged,  ungraceful  figure  was  in  the 
doorway,  one  hand  shading  his  eyes,  as  he  peered 
down  the  road,  watching  for  his  only  son. 

"And,  really,  I  never  came,"  thought  Johnny 
heavily.  "I'm  the  Prodigal  Son;  I've  wasted  my 
substance  in  riotous  giving,  and  I've  no  father  now 
to  meet  me  afar  off."  With  a  pang  he  recognized 
that  it  was  his  father,  not  his  mother,  to  whom  he 
would  have  turned,  in  this  darkest  passage  of  his  life. 
At  last  the  hard-headed,  faithful  old  Anglo-Saxon 
ruler  of  men  was  claiming  his  own. 


CHAPTER   V 


"ROGER  MACK" 


There  was  a  little  room  in  Overlook  which  Peggy 
Rutherford  loved,  yet  it  had  witnessed  some  of  the 
saddest  hours  of  her  life.  Nevertheless,  she  had 
loved  it  when  she  was  a  little  child,  when  it  was  the 
Princess  Olga's  fitting-room,  where  Johnny  and 
she  used  to  play  with  innumerable  paper  dolls,  for 
which  they  feigned  wonderful  romances;  and  she 
never  lost  her  childish  sense  of  happiness  in  it,  even 
after  the  happiness,  like  the  childhood,  had  dwindled 
to  a  pensive  memory. 

The  room  was  on  the  second  story,  with  a  Pallad- 
ian  window  filling  most  of  one  wall  and  giving  on 
the  river  and  the  dim  Illinois  hills.  Wainscoting 
and  mantel-piece,  lintels  and  jamb,  massive,  tall 
doors  and  crenulated  molding  on  the  ceiling  and 
under  the  mantel-shelf, — all  were  as  Peggy's  child 
hood  knew  them ;  painted,  to-day,  the  same  smooth, 
glossy,  but  not  glittering  white  which  always  had 
assembled  in  her  mind  the  mingled  sensations  of  the 
white  of  lilies  and  of  a  certain  delectable  candy  that 
Johnny  and  she  named  "cream  pull." 

The  house  had  been  built  before  the  days  of  grill- 
work,  and  the  interior  construction  was  supervised 
by  an  old  German,  a  craftsman  of  no  mean  skill  who 


3H 


THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 


died  ignorant  that  he  was  an  artist,  hence  had  never 
muddled  his  vision  with  ambition;  and,  being  an 
honest  man,  used  only  well-seasoned  lumber  and 
plenty  of  nails,  and  never  trusted  his  rabbets  or 
mortises  to  any  eye  save  his  own.  Stanch  and  true 
Winslow  found  the  old  mansion,  inside,  whatever 
havoc  the  weather  had  played  without;  and  stanch 
and  true  it  was  to-day.  There  was  the  same  vista 
past  the  door,  which  Peggy's  childish  eyes  had  ad 
mired  ;  the  ample  hall  with  the  well  in  the  center,  up 
which  wound  the  great  spiral  staircase  with  its 
white  balustrade  and  mahogany  hand-rail.  A  long- 
deserved  paddling  did  she,  Peggy,  once  receive  from 
dear  old  dead  mammy  for  sliding  down  those  balus 
ters  from  the  third  story,  closely  followed  by  John 
ny,  with  Hilma  pursuing  by  the  stairs,  a  bad  third. 
Through  another  door  could  be  seen  the  mahogany 
four-poster  of  the  princess'  time,  'and  the  same  low 
boy  and  high-boy  that  she  had  used,  with  their  glass 
knobs  and  brass  escutcheons.  The  curtains  of  chintz 
and  swiss  muslin  on  the  windows  and  the  bed,  and 
the  chintz  on  the  chairs,  as  well  as  the  wall-paper, 
had  been  renewed  often ;  but  so  pious  was  the  copy 
of  the  past  that  Peggy  seemed  to  see  the  same  sheer 
whiteness  of  the  valance  that  she  used  to  covet  for 
a  frock,  and  the  same  sprawling  roses  on  chintz  and 
walls. 

In  the  room  where  she  sat,  the  walls  were  tinted 
grayly-green  as  of  old,  and  the  white  curtains  of 
the  window  might  have  been  the  very  curtains  she 
had  watched  the  princess  push  aside,  so  many  times, 
to  look  down  at  the  humble  roof-trees  of  the  Patch. 
Almost  with  the  vividness  of  reality  Peggy  could 


"ROGER   MACK"  315 

see  that  exquisite  light  shape  in  the  trailing  dove- 
gray  gown  which  made  delicate  shadows  as  it  fell; 
she  could  see  the  long  arm  in  the  elbow  sleeve  of  the 
period,  the  white,  lovely  forearm  emerging  from  a 
filmy  fall  of  lace,  and  the  beautiful  hand  with  its 
flashing  rings ;  she  could  see  the  shining  dark  head, 
so  like  Johnny's,  in  that  proud  and  graceful  poise 
which  her  son  had  inherited.  The  image  in  the 
girl's  mind  was  so  strongly  colored  that  it  made  the 
portrait  which  hung  in  the  bedchamber  seem  less 
real  than  its  spectral  beauty. 

The  portrait  was  new.  It  had  been  painted  since 
Mr.  Winslow's  death,  since  Johnny's  vanishing. 
Mrs.  Winslow  had  an  enlargement  made  of  the 
miniature  which  was  done  of  the  princess  during 
her  visit  to  Russia,  after  her  marriage.  Her  hus 
band  never  spoke  of  it;  whether  he  ever  looked  at 
it  or  not  his  closest  friends,  even  the  closest  friend 
of  all,  his  wife,  did  not  know ;  but  two  years  after 
his  death  Emma  came  across  it  in  a  secret  drawer  of 
his  writing-desk.  She  planned  to  give  it  to  Johnny 
on  his  next  birthday,  and  she  had  the  water-color 
copy  made  to  give  at  the  same  time.  She  hung  it 
in  Johnny's  chamber,  which  had  been  his  mother's, 
placing  it  on  the  wall  to  the  right  of  the  bed,  at  such 
an  angle  that  the  beautiful  face  would  meet  his  eyes 
as  the  sun  met  them,  when  he  woke  in  the  morning. 
She  took  infinite  pains  with  the  gift,  and  perhaps 
spent  on  it  some  hopes  that  his  pleasure  would  in 
cline  his  heart  more  kindly  toward  the  giver.  But 
it  was  never  given.  Before  his  birthday  Johnny 
had  disappeared.  So  the  picture  hung  beside  the 
bed  which  was  always  kept  daintily  ready  for  the 


3i6  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

son  of  the  house,  who  never  came.  Always  the 
room  was  swept  and  garnished,  but  only  the  maids 
entered  it,  unless  Emma  Winslow  went  there,  alone 
and  unobserved,  to  think  her  own  thoughts. 

There  were  other  pictures  in  the  room  where 
Peggy  sat,  that  Johnny  and  she  did  not  see,  as 
well  as  some  that  they  knew.  Over  them  all  dom 
inated  the  portrait  of  Josiah  Winslow,  painted  by  a 
great  artist,  during  the  last  year  of  his  life;  a 
rugged  and  yet  indomitable  face,  wherein  the  marks 
of  care  showed,  but  power  showed,  also,  and  a  softer 
look  not  always  visible,  but  which  his  friends  knew. 
On  another  wall  was  a  group  of  photographs,  large 
and  small,  all  different  images  of  Johnny;  Johnny 
as  a  laughing,  dimpled  baby;  Johnny  as  a  solemn 
little  boy ;  Johnny  in  his  cadet's  uniform ;  Johnny  at 
Harvard,  smiling  above  his  track  sweater  with  its 
hard-won  H,  or  languid  and  elegant  in  his  class 
picture ;  and,  larger  than  the  others,  Johnny  holding 
the  little  sister  that  died,  on  Varonok,  his  own  horse. 

But  the  new  pictures  in  the  room  and  Peggy's 
typewriter  were  almost  the  only  changes.  Peggy's 
desk  was  the  same  George  Washington  which  Mrs. 
Burney  had  once  given  her  brother,  and  the  desk 
which  Mrs.  Winslow  used  was  the  old  "secretary" 
purchased  by  Josiah's  agent  in  Salem,  in  the  eighties, 
not  only  because  of  the  beauty  of  its  leaded  panes  of 
glass  above  and  its  curiously  inlaid  drawers,  but 
because  tradition  gave  it  to  a  luckless  Tory  Wins- 
low  of  Josiah's  own  line.  On  the  mantel-shelf,  now 
as  always,  stood  small  copies  of  Marc  Autocolski's 
Ivan  the  Terrible,  and  his  tremendous  Mephisto- 
pheles.  Between  the  two,  above  them  both,  on  the 


"ROGER   MACK"  '317 

wall,  was  a  bas-relief  of  Joraslav  the  Wise.  The 
princess  had  bought  the  Ivan,  saying:  "Ah!  there, 
there  is  the  true  spirit  of  despotism !"  Josiah  merely 
grunted,  but  when  the  statuette  was  unpacked  in 
Overlook  he  took  out  another  carefully  shapeless 
bundle  and  unwrapped  the  Mephistopheles,  with  the 
remark :  "You  are  right  about  Ivan ;  he  is  the  sym 
bol  of  despotism ;  now  here  is  his  pretty  twin,  Nihil 
ism."  Then,  as  the  princess  gazed  in  silence :  "Your 
countryman  is  great,  Olga,  great !  Look  at  this  crea 
ture;  he's  not  Goethe's  gentleman  devil,  not  a  bit; 
he's  a  brute,  with  a  head  on  him.  Look  at  his  clever, 
sneering  head  and  then  at  the  horrible  hands  and 
feet  of  him,  an  animal  and  a  fiend — oh,  I'll  chance 
with  his  ugly  stick,  rather  than  him." 

Their  positions  had  never  been  altered.  The 
Mephistopheles  and  the  Joraslav  were  Josiah's  only 
work  in  the  room.  Otherwise  it  was  all  Olga's.  And 
it  had  not  been  changed.  There  were  the  same 
ikons  on  the  wall,  the  same  Russian  bronzes  of 
troikas  and  wild  horses,  the  same  figurine  of  a 
Tsigane,  the  same  Venetian  glass  vases  filled  with 
violets,  as  she  used  to  keep  them,  although  their 
iridescent  fragility  had  been  the  despair  of  a  dozen 
housemaids.  And  in  the  window-box,  with  the  earli 
est  spring,  bloomed  hot-house  azaleas  and  hyacinths 
like  those  which  had  brought  the  Russian  a  per 
fume  of  home.  The  waxed  floors  were  polished  to 
the  same  perilous  gloss  that  had  been  the  small 
Peggy's  undoing  more  than  once,  as  she  skipped 
recklessly  across  them,  and  on  the  floor  were  the 
same  Persian  and  Daghestan  rugs  from  the  Nijnii 
Novgorod  fair.  The  two  strong  souls  that  had 


3i8  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

clashed  and  suffered,  each  in  its  own  fashion,  vio 
lently  or  dumbly,  had  been  defeated  by  the  stronger 
years  and  driven  forth  from  the  shining  of  the  sun ; 
but  these  insensate  objects  were  scarcely  marked  by 
time.  Below,  and  in  the  other  rooms,  Emma  Wins- 
low  had  given  her  own  taste  or  temperament  some 
indulgence ;  but  here  the  least  detail  was  respected. 

"Johnny  will  come  back,"  she  said  once  to  Peggy. 
"I  want  him  not  to  feel  strange  in  his  own  house, 
especially  in  his  mother's  room." 

In  the  Princess  Olga's  room,  then,  Peggy  was  sit 
ting  before  her  desk,  a  week  after  Johnny  took  his 
convalescent's  drive,  the  time  lacking  two  days  till 
Christmas.  She  had  dropped  her  pen,  and  her  eyes 
were  exploring,  idly,  the  snow-enchanted  slopes, 
slanting  down  to  the  chill,  white  roofs  of  the  flat 
fields  below  and  a  wide,  frozen,  opal-tinted  plain 
that  had  been  the  flowing  river.  The  bend  of  her 
head  disclosed  how  fine  was  the  texture  and  how 
snowy  the  skin  of  her  pretty  neck,  and  what  grace 
ful  tendrils  of  silky  bronze  hair  had  escaped  from  its 
coil,  to  curl  below.  Her  long  lashes  fell  on  a  paler 
cheek  than  Mistress  Peggy  had  used  to  show ;  there 
was  a  sharper  oval  to  the  face,  and  the  mouth  was 
set  more  firmly. 

Mrs.  Winslow,  who  was  writing  at  the  secretary, 
watched  her  for  a  few  moments,  while  she  seemed 
to  be  looking  at  the  paper  under  her  hand. 

"Peggy !"  she  called ;  but  she  did  not  look  up. 

"Yes,  dear?"  said  Peggy.  As  she  turned  it  was 
as  if  she  had  slipped  her  features  into  a  mask  of  at 
tentive  interest. 

"Peggy,  I  suppose  you  had  nothing  in  your  mail 


'ROGER   MACK' 


about  Johnny?"  Had  Mrs.  Winslow  been  looking 
she  might  have  seen  a  flicker  of  color,  like  the  shift 
ing,  luminous  cloud  of  a  cat's-eye,  waver  over  the 
nape  of  the  girl's  neck ;  but  Peggy's  tones  were  clear 
and  cool :  "No,  Aunt  Emma." 

"There  is  nothing  but  the  two  letters  from  Billy 
Bates,  since  he  left  Chicago,"  Mrs.  Winslow  went 
on,  "and  he  says  he  can't  tell  anything,  except  that 
Johnny  was  well  and  he  thought  on  the  right  road 
to  come  to  his  senses,  and  the  last  of  those  was  five 
weeks  ago,  from  Indianapolis.  He  hasn't  answered 
my  last  letter  yet." 

"You  wrote  to  all  the  list  that  Harvard  man  sent 
you,  didn't  you?" 

"To  every  one,  begging  him,  if  he  could,  without 
betraying  any  confidence,  to  tell  me  how  I  could 
reach  Johnny.  I  have  written  to  his  tailor,  and  his 
haberdasher.  I  have  hunted  up  his  shoemaker.  They 
have  never  heard  from  him  since  last  summer.  He 
closed  up  his  account  at  the  bank ;  paid  all  his  small 
bills — if  he  had  any,  and — simply  slipped  under  the 
wave.  His  aunt  hasn't  heard  a  word — nobody  has 
heard  a  word.  You  see,  Johnny's  most  intimate 
Harvard  chum  died." 

"But  Billy  Bates?" 

Mrs.  Winslow  thought  a  moment  before  she  an 
swered,  rather  slowly :  "Yes,  we've  Billy  Bates.  Do 
you  know  what  he  has  done?  He  came  round  to  me 
and  asked  me  how  he  could  get  some  of  the  Old 
Colony  common  stock;  he  had  a  few  thousands  he 
wished  to  invest.  I  gave  him  a  chance  to  buy  at  a 
reasonable  figure — " 

"That  is,  you  sold  him  some  of  your  own,  cheap  ?" 


320  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"Why  not  ?  He  was  good  to  Johnny.  I  made  him 
promise  that  if  Johnny  should  be  ill  or  in  trouble, 
he  would  give  us  a  chance  to  help  him." 

Peggy  only  nodded;  but  in  a  moment  she  made 
an  excuse  for  getting  stamps  for  her  letters,  which 
brought  her  near  enough  to  drop  a  light  kiss  on 
Emma  Winslow's  hair.  The  older  woman  put  her 
arm  about  the  supple  waist  and  held  her  tenderly 
close.  "I  suppose  you  know,  Peggy,  you  are  a 
great  comfort  to  me  ?"  she  said. 

"It's  my  business  to  be/'  laughed  Peggy.  "I  get 
a  large  salary  for  being;  and  then — oh,  I  do  love 
you,  Aunt  Emma !" — while  she  caught  the  hand  and 
held  it  to  her  cheek  and  her  lips. 

"Don't  you  suppose  that's  a  comfort  to  me,  too  ?" 
said  the  elder  woman.  "Plenty  of  people  like  me; 
I  trust  a  great  many  respect  me ;  but  who  loves  me 
besides  my  good  old  dad  and  you?  Well,  maybe 
Elly  and  Cis  a  little,  and  Claudia  Loraine  and  a 
few  friends.  You  see,  it's  not  a  long  list." 

"It's  a  heap  longer  than  you  know,"  said  Peggy. 

"Do  you  remember," — Emma  Winslow's  tone 
had  changed — "it  was  in  this  very  room  Johnny 
came — that  day  my  husband  died;  and  you  stood, 
there,  in  the  other  doorway?  For  months  I  hated 
the  shine  of  the  setting  sun  on  the  river,  just  because 
it  was  shining,  shining  in  that  blinding  way,  then. 
And,  do  you  know,  the  first  thing  that  roused  me 
was  that  I  must  comfort  Johnny,  his  father's  only 
son.  But — he  wouldn't  let  me.  He  was  perfectly 
gentle,  gentle  as  snow,  but  I  couldn't  reach  him. 
And  yet  he  has  so  kind  a  heart, — too  kind,  too 
easily  touched!"  She  turned  away  and  stood  with 


"ROGER   MACK"  321 

her  back  to  Peggy,  looking  out  on  the  snow. 
"Christmas  is  a  hard  season,"  she  said;  "I  don't 
know  how  I  am  going  to  bear  it  without — and 
Johnny  gone,  too." 

"Oh,  Johnny!"  Peggy  broke  in  loftily;  but  her 
heart  ached  for  the  uncomplaining  pain  that  she 
knew  was  in  the  other  woman's  face.  "Johnny'll 
come  back  all  right.  I'll  answer  for  Johnny/' 

Emma  Winslow  tried  to  laugh,  but  the  laugh 
broke ;  she  laid  her  head  against  the  window-pane. 
"Peggy,"  said  she,  "do  you  mind  if  I  cry?  I  think 
it's  the  season  and  the  holly  and  the  sleigh-bells; 
they  get  on  my  nerves." 

Now,  never  before  had  Peggy  seen  any  intimation 
of  nerves  about  her  friend  and  protector.  Mrs. 
Winslow's  self-control  seemed  a  fastness  which  none 
of  the  afflictions  or  perils  of  humanity  could  storm. 

Such  conquering  of  her  own  spirit  was  beyond 
Margaret  Rutherford.  It  held  her  at  arm's  length, 
as  those  qualities  in  our  friends,  which  we  admire 
but  have  no  hopes  of  imitating,  generally  hold  us. 

And  now  Peggy  saw  a  tear  splash  on  the  clenched 
hand  at  the  window-pane ;  and  she  was  abashed.  It 
had  not  been  philosophy  or  indifference,  then,  which 
had  kept  Aunt  Emma  so  tolerant,  so  uncomplaining 
about  Johnny.  Johnny  had  hurt  her  all  along,  just 
as  he  had  hurt  Peggy,  and  Peggy  felt  a  sudden  pain 
in  her  throat  sweep  in  a  curve  to  the  roof  of  her 
mouth. 

But  even  as  Peggy  thought  this,  Emma  turned 
her  quiet  face,  wiping  her  eyes,  with  a  kind  of  apol 
ogy  in  her  smile,  and  sat  down  calmly  in  an  easy 
chair. 


322  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

The  chair  was  just  under  the  large  portrait  of 
Winslow.  While  his  wife  talked,  she  looked  into  his 
face.  On  hers  was  almost  the  expression  it  might 
have  worn,  had  the  painted  man  been  a  sentient 
listener  to  her  words.  "I'd  like  to  have  you  under 
stand/'  she  said,  "how  I  feel  about  Johnny.  I  took 
him  to  my  heart  from  the  first,  when  he  was  a  little, 
lonely  creature  mourning  for  his  mother,  but  never 
making  any  fuss  about  it.  There  never  was  such  a 
sweet  little  chap  in  the  world !" 

"No,"  said  Peggy,  "I  reckon  there  never  was." 

"I  think  at  first  he  did  like  me  a  little.  He  seemed 
to." 

"I  know  he  did,"  said  Peggy. 

"But  after  I  married  his  father  it  was  different. 
He  never  forgave  me  for  usurping  his  mother's 
place.  I  suppose  that  was  how  he  put  it.  I  tried  to 
understand  his  point  of  view.  I  think  I  do,  in  a  way. 
He  wouldn't  let  himself  grow  attached  to  me.  But 
— he  loved  baby,  Peggy." 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Peggy. 

"The  day  after  we  buried  her  he  went  out  to  the 
cemetery.  He  gathered  some  wild  flowers,  and  I 
found  them  there  on  the  little  grave.  That  night, 
when  he  went  back,  I  thought  there  was  something 
different  in  his  face.  But  when  I  saw  him  again  it 
was  gone,  or  else  I  only  imagined  it.  I  don't  deny 
his  coldness  hurt  me,  but  I  tried  to  be  reasonable 
and  never  let  his  father  suspect  that  it  did  hurt.  I 
felt  all  the  time  that  if  Si  could  only  find  his  son 
and  Johnny  find  his  father,  and  they  could  under 
stand  each  other,  I  would  have  no  right  to  grumble, 
whether  he  ever  cared  for  me  or  not.  But  while  I 


"ROGER   MACK"  323 

feel  convinced  that  Johnny  really  loved  his  father, 
very  deeply — " 

"He  fairly  adored  him!"  asserted  Peggy  stoutly; 
"he  somehow  got  all  wrong  about  him ;  but  he  was 
awfully  fond  of  him  and  admired  him,  just  the 
same." 

"Yet  they  seemed  to  drift  apart.  And  I  could  do 
nothing  to  bring  them  nearer  because  he  mistrusted 
me—" 

"Shame  on  him !"  exploded  Peggy.  "He  was  al 
ways  the  pig-headedest  little  boy,  even!  Oh,  the 
things  I  am  going  to  say  to  him  when  I  once  get 
hold  of  him  again!" 

"It's  his  conscience,  of  course.  I  often  told  Si  he 
shouldn't  blame  Johnny  for  inheriting  the  Puritan 
conscience.  The  trouble  was,  he  had  a  Puritan  con 
science  and  a  Russian  imagination — " 

"And  his  own  obstinacy." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you ;  I  think  he  is  open  to  con 
viction,  if  it  is  only  rubbed  in  hard  enough.  But, 
Peggy,  don't  you  see  that  with  his  convictions  there 
was  danger  that  he  would  wreck  not  only  his  for 
tune  but  himself,  if  he  were  trusted  with  it?  The 
times  we  have  talked  about  it,  Mr.  Winslow  and  I, 
thinking  one  plan  and  another !  The  weight  it  was 
on  his  father's  heart — I  don't  suppose  anybody  can 
know.  At  one  time  Si  made  a  will  giving  me  every 
thing  for  my  life.  'I  can  trust  Johnny  with  you/  he 
said;  but  I  tore  the  will  up,  and  he  made  another 
before  he  went  to  bed  very  similar  to  the  one  last 
made. 

"Our  idea  was  to  let  Johnny  see  for  himself.  We 
knew  he  would  lose  the  hundred  thousand.  But  we 


324  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

expected  then  that  I  should  show  him  his  father's 
letter  to  him  and  his  father's  letter  of  trust  to  me. 
See,  I  will  show  my  letter  to  you,  dear.  I  can't  have 
any  secrets  about  Johnny  with  you." 

She  took  the  letter  out  of  a  locked  box,  in  which 
she  replaced  it  after  Peggy  had  read  it.  Peggy,  with 
a  moving  of  the  heart,  perceived  in  the  box  a  pile  of 
the  small  diaries  which  Mr.  Winslow  used,  his 
watch  and  chain,  and  such  personal  trifles. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Winslow. 

"It's  very  generous,"  said  Peggy,  "but  I  knew 
you  would  be.  I  suppose  meantime  you  meant  to 
help  Johnny." 

"I  meant  to  lend  him  money,  and  let  him  show  the 
stuff  he  is  made  of.  But — we  can't  find  him." 

Peggy  was  standing  by  the  window.  "You  said 
we  should  have  no  secrets,"  she  said  slowly.  "I 
think  so,  too.  There  is  a  little  thing.  It  didn't  seem 
worth  while — until  I  found  out  more — but — I'm 
going  to  tell  you  everything  just  as  it  happens. 
There's  Mishka* ;  he  must  hear  from  Johnny." 

"Yes,  through  Billy;  no  more  than  we  know." 

Peggy  raised  and  dropped  her  eyes;  she  blushed 
faintly,  finally  laughed.  "I  was  trying  to  get  round 
to  it.  To-day — well,  to-day,  Michael  showed  me 
a  letter  from  Johnny.  I'll  go  get  it." 

And  she  hurriedly  left  the  room.  Emma  smiled 
and  thought:  "I  dare  say  if  I  could  follow  her  I 
should  find  she  was  wearing  it  on  her  heart.  Oh, 
how  ridiculous  are  girls!" 

Then  she  looked  from  the  baby  girl  on  the  wall 

*Russian  diminutive  of  Michael. 


"ROGER  MACK"  325 

to  Johnny's  last  picture.  Where  was  he  now,  this 
Christmas-tide?  With  no  money,  no  friends — but 
her  dismal  reverie  halted  on  the  word  and  she 
smiled.  Wherever  he  was,  she  knew  right  well  that 
Johnny  would  not  be  without  friends. 

Peggy  returned  with  an  open  letter.  "The  paper 
is  off  a  block,"  announced  she;  "the  envelope  is  a 
stamped  one  and  postmarked  Chicago.  That  tells 
nothing  except  that  Billy  Bates  must  have  been  in 
Chicago  last  week." 

"As  I  am  hunting  Billy,  that's  something,"  said 
Mrs.  Winslow.  She  unfolded  the  paper  and  dropped 
it.  "In  Russian !"  she  cried. 

"Of  course.  He  always  writes  Russian  to  Mishka, 
but  I  made  him  translate  it.  He  says  kind  things  to 
Mishka  and  sends  him  a  Russian  picture-card  and 
tells  him  that  he  would  send  him  more,  but  he  has 
been  in  hospital,  ill  for  six  weeks,  and,  while  he 
gets  good  wages,  he  has  to  spend  a  good  deal,  for  he 
is  helping  take  care  of  three  little  children." 

"Three  children!"  repeated  Mrs.  Winslow; 
"whose  children?" 

"You  wouldn't  suppose  Johnny  could  have  car 
ried  his  nonsense  so  far  as — as — to  marry  some 
body?"  Peggy  made  the  speech  with  elaborate  care 
lessness. 

"No,  I  wouldn't,"  retorted  Mrs.  Winslow. 

"A  widow,"  suggested  Peggy,  who  had  never 
harbored  the  suspicion  until  this  moment,  but  in 
stantly  began  to  color  it  with  the  hues  of  life.  "One 
of  those  right  helpless,  silly,  deplorable  sort  of  crea 
tures  that  look  pathetic  and  always  have  their  shirt 
waists  parting  from  their  skirts.  Husband  probably 


326  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

killed  by  machinery  and  the  children  are  all  about 
the  same  age,  one  born  about  every  six  months — " 

"That,  Peggy,"  Mrs.  Winslow  interrupted,  "is 
impossible." 

"Not  to  that  sort  of  woman.  They  are  bound  by 
no  natural  laws.  No  doubt  she's  pretty  in  a  driveling 
fashion — " 

"But,  Peggy,"  Mrs.  Winslow  objected,  "he  says 
he  was  in  a  hospital.  If  he  were  married  his  wife 
would  take  care  of  him." 

"Not  that  kind,"  said  Peggy  firmly;  "she's  too 
trifling." 

"But  he  says  he  takes  part  of  the  care  of  the  chil 
dren." 

"She  takes  the  other  part;  she's  so  trifling  she 
can't  even  take  care  of  her  own  children;  it's  awful 
to  think  what  Johnny  probably  has  to  eat." 

"Peggy,"  asked  Mrs.  Winslow,  "do  you  believe 
that  rubbish,  yourself?" 

Peggy's  white  teeth  flashed ;  she  owned  up  with  a 
laugh:  "No,  Aunt  Emma,  I  only  like  to  pretend, 
just  as  Johnny  and  I  used  to,  as  children ;  there  is  a 
sort  of  joy  flinging  oneself  thoroughly  into  a  dra 
matic  situation.  Don't  you  ever  want  to  get  into 
some  one's  else  skin?  But  Johnny? — I'm  pretty  sure 
Johnny  is  taking  care  of  some  mate's  kit  of  human 
ity,  and  the  man's  dead.  I  reckon  Billy's  the  other 
partner  in  the  kindergarten." 

"That  would  be  likely,"  mused  Mrs.  Winslow, 
"and  like  Johnny.  Peggy,  do  you  suppose  he  was 
very  ill?  Why  didn't  Billy  Bates  tell  us?" 

Peggy  supposed  because  Johnny  would  not  allow 
him,  and  Billy  was  straitened  in  resources  by 


"ROGER   MACK"  327 

some  promise.  But  why  couldn't  there  be  a  letter 
sent — through  Michael  ? 

"You  write  a  letter,  you  mean?"  queried  Emma 
Winslow. 

"Of  course  not," — Peggy's  tone  and  pose  were 
full  of  dignity — "you  write  him  a  letter." 

Emma  smiled  wearily.  "But,  you  see,  I  have  writ 
ten,  with  no  result.  I  only  got  profuse  and  humble 
apologies  from  Bates  because  he  had  promised  that 
he  would  not  forward  any  letters.  Ivan  considered 
it  was  the  same  as  if  he  had  died — " 

"Oh,  can't  Johnny  be  mawkish,  sometimes !"  cried 
Peggy,  tossing  her  head.  "I'm  glad  I  called  him  a 
plumb  idiot." 

"I  don't  think  Johnny  even  thought  of  opening 
the  envelope.  He  didn't." 

"He'd  have  to  open  this,  for  it  would  be  inside 
Michael's." 

"He  would  know  the  handwriting;  that  would 
stop  him  at  the  first  sentence." 

"I'd  typewrite  it." 

"And  if  he  read  it,  read  it  to  the  close,  he  would 
steel  his  heart  against  every  word  I  say.  If  you 
wrote  it,  he  would  read  it  in  the  first  place,  and  it 
would  move  him  in  the  second." 

Peggy  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room.  "I 
don't  see  how  I  can,  Aunt  Emma;  I  told  him  I 
wouldn't  ever  speak  to  him  again,  to  save  his  life! 
It  was  so  silly  and  cruel  and  horrid  of  me ;  but  I  did. 
And  I  don't  see  how  I  can  break  my  word." 

"It  was  only  a  foolish  expression.  You  didn't 
believe  you  would  keep  your  word;  he  didn't  be 
lieve  you  would." 


328  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  he  did.  And  Johnny  never 
breaks  his  word.  Oh,  I  shan't  break  mine." 

"But  this  isn't  speaking, — since  you  are  so  ab 
surd." 

"Besides — I  have  written  him,"  said  Peggy  in  a 
very  little,  soft  voice. 

"Peggy!" 

"Oh,  not  as  myself ;  dear  no ;  that  would  break  my 
word.  I  wrote  him  (through  Michael)  as  a — a  boy 
— a  Fairport  boy,  who  used  to  steal  rides  on  the  cars 
and  who  was  once  chased  by  the  constable  and  res 
cued  with  two  or  three  others  by  Johnny.  That  res 
cue  really  happened.  I  said  I  was  one  of  that  crowd. 
I  was,  in  fact,  hanging  on  to  the  caboose,  and  the 
brakeman  didn't  know  it  until  they  slowed  down, 
and  he  spied  us  and  signaled  a  policeman.  I  don't 
know  what  we  should  have  done;  the  prison  doors 
yawned  for  us,  as  they  used  to  say  in  the  stories; 
but  in  the  very  instant  of  doom  Johnny  and  Mishka 
appeared.  Mishka  was  driving  the  big  landau  and 
Johnny's  nice  little  face  was  at  the  window.  The 
policeman  was  pounding  down  the  street  after  us. 
We  dived  and  doubled,  shot  into  one  shop  and  out 
the  back  yard  and  came  out  behind  him,  and  made 
straight  for  Johnny,  who  had  the  door  open.  He 
sheltered  us;  and  Michael  drove  away  while  the 
policeman  hollered  to  stop.  There  were  three  boys 
and  I.  I  never  saw  any  of  the  boys  before  or  after ; 
but  I  pretended  to  be  one  of  those  boys.  I  called 
myself  Roger  Mack ;  Mack,  after  my  horse  down  in 
Tennessee,  and  Roger  I  chose  for  pretty,  as  old 
mammy  used  to  say.  I  told  him  I  lived  in  Fairport 
and  worked  for  my  living  and  had  half-way  edu- 


"ROGER   MACK"  329 

cated  myself.  It  would  be  a  great  help  to  me  if  he 
would  write  me  and  tell  me  of  any  job  he  might 
hear  of  in  Chicago,  if  he  was  there.  I  was  giving  the 
letter  to  Michael  to  post  for  me.  What's  more,  I  got 
Michael  to  say  'Roger  Mack  is  a  good  boy/  " 

"But  the  handwriting;  you  couldn't  disguise 
that?" 

"I  didn't  try.  I  consider  that  right  clever  of  me. 
You  know  the  Martins?  The  older  sister  sews  for 
Cousin  Rebecca  Winter.  Well,  Sadie  Martin  is  a 
typewriter,  and  she  taught  me  a  little  stenography; 
she's  giving  me  lessons,  right  along.  She  is  really  a 
fine  girl,  and  she's  as  trustworthy — as  trustworthy 
as  your  William  Bates,  who  admires  her  very  much, 
by  the  way.  Sadie  is  my  fellow  conspirator ;  that  is, 
she  is  one  of  them.  She  has  heard  so  much  about 
Johnny  from  the  fidus  Achates  that  she  is  very  in 
terested.  But  the  best  is,  she  can  hold  her  tongue." 

"And  she  wrote  the  letter?" 

"She  did.  She  admired  it  very  much." 

"And  whom  else  have  you  in  the  plot?" 

"Why,  Michael,  of  course ;  and  only  Luke  Darrell, 
else." 

Mrs.  Winslow  laughed  a  little.  "We  never  can 
seem  to  get  along  without  Luke  Darrell  in  Fair- 
port.  But  what  is  he  for?" 

"Address  place  to  send  letters  to.  Care  L.  Dar 
rell,  Livery  and  Feed  Stables,  Fairport." 

"I  see,  dear.  What  did  Luke  say  when  you  told 
him?" 

"He  was  right  nice.  He  screwed  his  eyes  up — 
after  he  had  put  himself,  his  office,  and  his  office 
stationery  at  my  service — and  he  said :  'Well,  Miss 


330  THE   MAN   OF   THE  HOUR 

Rutherford,  if  you'll  excuse  me  saying  so,  you're 
showing  good  judgment.  You  can't  drive  a  high- 
stepping  colt  in  harness,  first  jump;  it's  better  to 
start  with  a  halter.'  Well,  I  don't  know  how  much 
we'll  get  out  of  it,  but  there  is  my  secret,  Aunt 
Emma;  I  won't  have  any  more." 

Thus  did  Roger  Mack  begin  his  career, — a  longer 
one  than  his  sponsors  foreboded. 


CHAPTER  VI 

TYLER    PASSES 

Tyler  was  a  cheerful  man  these  days.  It  is  doubt 
ful  whether  he  really  meant  murder  by  Johnny,  al 
though  his  comrades  in  the  assault  would  not  have 
stopped  short  of  it  after  their  tempers  were  roused. 
He  was  well  content  when  the  affair  ended  with 
Johnny's  losing  five  weeks  and  his  job  (as  he 
thought),  besides  having  a  bad  time  in  the  hospital. 
He  didn't  hesitate  to  say  to  his  intimates  that  he 
had  taught  the  young  cub  a  lesson,  maybe  he'd  be 
have  himself  now. 

But  it  was  with  some  misgivings  that,  one  even 
ing,  peacefully  playing  poker  in  his  favorite  saloon, 
and  holding  at  that  moment  a  full  house  of  high 
character,  he  perceived  Johnny's  dark  head  in  the 
doorway. 

Johnny  was  accompanied  by  two  molders,  gener 
ally  leaders  among  the  radical  element.  He  was 
still  pale  from  his  illness ;  but  he  walked  with  a  light, 
springy  step.  He  wore  his  working-clothes. 

"I'm  out,"  said  Tyler's  neighbor,  dropping  his 
cards. 

Secretly  Tyler  wished  that  he  were  out,  too.  But 
he  studied  his  hand  and  then  carelessly  shoved  a  pile 
of  blue  chips  into  the  heap  on  the  table. 


332 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 


"Fifteen  better,"  said  he. 

Two  more  men  dropped  out. 

The  fifth  put  out  his  hand  with  his  cards  in  it,  as 
if  to  throw  them  on  the  table,  but  in  the  act  hesi 
tated,  because  he  saw  Johnny  at  his  elbow. 

"Hullo,  Gleason!"  he  called;  "glad  to  see  you're 
out." 

"Don't  let  me  interrupt  your  game,"  said  Johnny, 
"I  only  want  to  speak  a  word  with  Mr.  Tyler  when 
the  hand's  out." 

"That  decides  it,"  laughed  the  man.  "I  call; 
Wally,  take  my  pile."  He  pushed  the  last  of  his  blue 
chips  into  the  center. 

"Full  house,  queens  up,"  said  Tyler. 

"Not  good ;  kings  over  here."  Then,  as  he  raked 
in  the  swollen  aggregation  of  rising  and  falling 
jackpots  he  gleefully  confessed:  "I'd  made  up  my 
mind  Wally  had  fours  and  was  going  to  pull  out, 
when  I  saw  Van  here,  and  my  mind  sort  of  shifted." 

Tyler  kept  his  easy  smile  (he  prided  himself  on 
being  a  good  loser),  but  his  thoughts  were  as  raven 
ing  wolves.  He  greeted  Johnny  perfunctorily. 

"I  have  only  one  word  to  say,"  said  Johnny  in 
a  low  voice,  with  extreme  gentleness.  "I'm  not  go 
ing  to  ask  you  who  was  the  man  who  stabbed  me 
last  month, — I  don't  care  who  he  was.  He  was  only 
a  tool — "  Tyler's  strident  tones  overrode  the  other's 
quiet  tenor : 

"Look  here,  young  gentleman,  Gleetzin,  or  what 
ever  you  call  yourself,  I  fought  you  with  my  hands, 
nothing  else ;  and  you  fought  me  with  knucks !" 

"And  I'll  fight  again  with  knucks,  any  time,"  re 
turned  Johnny  in  the  same  gentle  accents,  "when 


TYLER   PASSES  333 

three  men  jump  out  of  the  dark  at  me.  At  any 
time  you  wish  I  am  willing  to  fight  you,  fairly  and 
squarely,  with  bare  knuckles  or  with  gloves;  and 
may  the  best  man  win !  But  if  you  set  on  me  again 
with  knives  or  crowbars  or  pistols,  I  go  ready  to 
protect  myself,  and  I  shall  kill  you.  That's  all. 
Good  evening."  Johnny  wheeled  half  around  as  if 
to  go. 

"Aw,  cool  off,"  sneered  Tyler;  "I  ain't  righting 
with  a  typewriter  and  can't  keep  up  with  your  lingo ; 
but  I'll  fight  you,  all  right — and  this  minute!" 

He  had  been  measuring  Johnny;  it  came  to  him 
that  the  young  fellow  was  enfeebled  by  illness  and 
should  prove  an  easy  mark ;  he  was  sure  of  it  when 
Johnny  seemed  about  to  depart  so  tamely.  But  he 
found  his  mistake  before  the  end  of  the  first  round, 
— suspected  it  the  minute  Johnny  peeled  off  his  coat 
and  showed  his  undershirt  and  the  belt  about  his 
waist.  "He  meant  to  pick  a  fight,  by  hell!"  darted 
through  his  brain,  and  his  heart  beat  more  quickly. 
The  next  second  a  body  blow  sent  him  reeling.  He 
recovered  himself  and  made  a  rush. 

Tyler's  terrible  rushes,  wherein  by  sheer  force  and 
weight  he  broke  down  his  opponent's  guard,  were 
known  wherever  he  was  known.  He  hurled  himself 
on  Johnny  with  the  force  of  a  battering-ram,  but 
what  avails  a  battering-ram  against  a  tiger  which 
leaps  out  of  its  way?  Before  he  could  rush  again, 
Johnny  feinted  with  his  right,  and  easily  parrying 
Tyler's  half-hearted  jab  at  his  eyes,  sent  a  crushing 
left-handed  blow  straight  at  the  big  man's  heart. 

The  fight  was  ended  again.  Tyler,  who  had  top 
pled  over,  got  on  to  his  knees ;  but  the  barkeeper,  the 


334  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

recognized  representative  of  the  Red  Cross  on  such 
occasions,  hauled  him  behind  the  bar  and  held  him 
with  arguments  and  arms,  while  he  (secretly  thank 
ful  for  his  bonds)  made  futile  struggles  to  escape 
and  get  at  Johnny,  and  swore  ungratefully  at  his 
guardian  angel.  This  latter  simply  winked  at  the 
crowd  in  the  door,  whence  emerged  a  tall  and  burly 
policeman. 

"Do  yous  make  complaint,  Mr.  Tyler  ?"  asked  the 
tall  policeman,  with  much  civility. 

"No,  I  don't  make  complaint,"  Tyler  replied  sul 
lenly.  "I  can  settle  my  troubles  outside  the  City 
Hall." 

He  hadn't  lost  all  his  shrewdness,  and  he  knew 
the  popular  view;  moreover,  to  do  him  justice,  he 
had  plenty  of  confidence  in  his  own  powers. 

"Aw,  go  get  the  drinks  on  me,"  he  added  with 
a  forced  grin.  On  the  whole,  he  slipped  out  of  the 
humiliation  of  the  occasion  with  considerable  deft 
ness.  But  never  had  Tyler  hated  a  man  as  he  hated 
Johnny  from  that  day  henceforward.  The  hatred 
was  not  violent,  as  it  had  been  before,  but  it  was 
virulent.  And  when  he  lost  his  election  as  district 
president  he  gave  the  credit  where  it  belonged  and 
hated  Johnny  a  little  more.  All  the  same,  Johnny 
won.  Before  six  months  had  passed  he  had  forced 
Tyler  out  of  the  molders'  union. 

They  had  only  one  interview.  They  were  alone 
together,  with  a  newspaper  man  at  the  keyhole  of 
one  door  and  Giuseppe,  in  Tyler's  interests,  at  the 
other. 

Tyler  came  straight  to  the  point :  "What  do  you 
want  to  let  up  on  me?"  said  he. 


TYLER   PASSES  335 

"You  to  leave  the  molders'  and  leave  Chicago," 
said  Johnny. 

"I'm  going  into  the  machinists',  anyhow,"  said 
Tyler  carelessly,  "but  why  should  I  leave  Chicago?" 

Johnny's  reply  was  given  close  to  Tyler's  face,  so 
low  that  the  newspaper  man  could  not  catch  it, 
which  was  a  sore  chagrin  to  him. 

"Because  I  know  you  made  Evers  and  Hastings 
pay  you  three  hundred  dollars  to  keep  on  hiring 
non-union  men.  And  I  can  prove  it.  Because  I 
know  you  sold  out  to  Wethers ;  and  I've  got  one  of 
your  letters." 

"Maybe  you'll  show  it  to  me,"  jeered  Tyler,  but 
his  color  turned. 

"I'll  show  you  a  copy,"  said  Johnny,  and  took  out 
a  slip  from  his  pocketbook,  which  (always  keeping 
his  eye  on  the  man),  he  handed  to  him. 

Tyler  read  it.  His  face  was  undecipherable.  He 
pushed  it  back  to  Johnny. 

"It's  good,"  said  he,  in  poker  parlance,  "but  I  was 
going,  anyhow.  I'm  not  stuck  on  Chicago.  But 
you're  not  through  with  me  yet,  Mr.  John  Wins- 
low." 

But  Johnny  was  not  disturbed.  He  was  interested 
in  politics,  for  the  most  exciting  presidential  election 
since  the  war  was  drawing  near,  and  the  entire 
American  people  were  studying  political  economy. 
He  was  also  interested  in  his  work,  which  now  was 
in  a  steel  mill ;  and  he  frequently  told  Billy,  with  a 
touch  of  his  old  enthusiasm,  that  steel  was  the  most 
wonderful  and  interesting  thing  in  the  world.  He 
got  good  wages.  The  little  Blokers  were  no  longer  a 
continual  goad  to  his  remorse;  they  were  not  only 


336  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

Bicker's  children,  they  were  their  own  often  puz 
zling  but  interesting  selves.  In  short,  he  was  re 
covering  his  spirits.  He  was  desperately  unhappy 
often,  and  lonely  beyond  expression;  but  his  life  be 
gan  to  creep  out  of  the  pit. 


CHAPTER   VII 

JOHNNY   MEETS   AN   OLD   FRIEND 

Not  long  after  Tyler's  flitting,  Johnny  ran 
against  an  old  Fairport  friend.  Several  times  he 
had  seen  familiar  faces  on  the  street,  had  dodged 
them  unobserved  and,  finally,  fled  from  them 
when  he  feared  their  notice;  this  time  there  was 
no  fleeing.  The  friend  was  Mrs.  Winter,  and  he 
met  her  in  the  last  place  which  he  would  have  feared 
as  holding  any  danger  of  that  sort,  a  street-car, 
since  all  Fairport  knew  Mrs.  Winter's  detestation 
of  street-cars. 

"So  long  as  I  have  fifty  cents  left  in  my  pocket," 
she  was  accustomed  to  remark,  "I  will  never  ride  in 
those  disobliging  pest-houses !" 

But  there  are  two  things,  besides  the  good  will, 
necessary  to  take  a  cab  instead  of  the  cars :  one  is 
money,  with  which  Mrs.  Winter  was  amply  sup 
plied,  the  other  (quite  as  necessary)  is  a  cab  to  take. 
This  day  she  found  that,  by  some  mistake,  the  cab 
on  which  she  counted  was  not  at  hand ;  rather  than 
be  late  for  an  appointment  she  stooped  her  proud 
spirit  to  the  plebeian  transport. 

The  car  was  full.  A  young  man  gave  her  his 
seat.  He  was  a  handsome,  tall,  clean-shaven,  dark, 
young  fellow,  who  wore  a  blue  flannel  shirt  and 

337 


338  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

trousers  that  had  seen  trouble  with  grocery  bar 
rels;  but  his  battered  soft  hat  came  off  with  the 
grace  of  a  courtier,  as  he  said :  "Will  you  take  this 
seat,  madam  ?" 

"Thank  you,"  she  began  with  perfunctory  cour 
tesy;  then  she  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  "Isn't  it 
Johnny  Winslow?"  she  inquired  calmly.  Johnny 
hesitated,  he  flushed. 

"Don't  bother  to  deny  it,"  said  she;  "this  isn't  the 
place  for  a  talk,  but  won't  you  come  to  the  Annex — 
after  you've  got  on  some  other  clothes — and  take 
dinner  with  me?  Better.  If  you  wish,  I'll  never 
mention  seeing  you." 

Johnny's  wits  were  stampeded  by  the  surprise; 
moreover,  he  felt  a  traitorous  weakness  of  the  heart 
at  the  sight  of  those  kind,  familiar  features ;  he  was 
disgusted  with  himself,  but  he  was  glad ;  he  was  so 
glad,  he  couldn't  keep  his  lips  from  curling  as  he 
stammered :  "I  can't  come  to  dinner ;  but  I  will  come 
in  the  evening,  if  you  are  not  engaged."  He  did 
come.  He  appeared  in  his  workman's  Sunday 
clothes,  and  sat  in  front  of  Mrs.  Winter,  clasping 
his  hands  over  his  knee  and  lifting  his  boyish  smile 
to  her  keen  eyes. 

"Well,  Johnny-Ivan,"  she  said,  "have  you  been 
knocked  down  in  the  crush  yet?" 

"Knocked  down  and  trampled  on,"  he  answered, 
"whichever  way  you  mean." 

"Mind  telling  me,  or  haven't  you  got  there  yet  ?" 

"I'm  not  quite  there  yet,  I  think,  Mrs.  Winter; 
I'm  too  sore." 

"Very  well.  Only  you  used  to  call  me  Aunty 
Winter." 


JOHNNY   MEETS   AN   OLD   FRIEND          339 

"You  are  such  a  very  great  lady — " 

"Provincial,  only,  Johnny-Ivan;  but  what  if  I 
were?  You  haven't,  I  take  it,  done  anything  un 
worthy  of  a  gentleman  or  of  Governor  Josiah?" 

"No,  I  hope  not.  Tell  me,  Aunty  Winter,  does  the 
portrait  of  the  old  governor  still  hang  in  the  li 
brary?" 

"Just  the  same;  Emma  Winslow  has  good  taste, 
I  will  say,  though  she  has  stolen  Peggy  from  me." 

"Is  Miss  Rutherford  with  Mrs.  Winslow?"  He 
looked  at  his  boots. 

"Peggy  is  with  your  stepmother,  yes.  Good 
thing,  too,  although  I  wanted  her  myself,  and  she's 
my  kin.  She  makes  Emma  mighty  comfortable; 
and  I  think  Emma  means  to  do  the  right  thing  by 
her." 

"She's  well,  I  hope,"  said  Johnny  constrainedly. 

"Who?   Mrs.  Winslow,  or  Peggy?" 

"Both." 

Mrs.  Winter  smiled,  and  rumpled  his  hair.  "It's 
good  to  see  your  curly  head  again,  Johnny-Ivan. 
What  are  you  up  to?" 

"I'm  a  rougher  in  a  steel  mill." 

"It  sounds  rather  discreditable;  but  I  suppose  it 
isn't." 

"It  isn't,  at  all.   It's  rather  high  up." 

"What  do  you  do,  by  chance?" 

"I  pull  out  red-hot  billets  from  the  furnace 
and—" 

"Gracious !  Don't  you  get  burned  ?" 

"Oh,  I  have  some  tongs." 

"Jo'nivan,  will  you  give  me  your  word  you  don't 
get  burned  ?" 


340  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"Not  now.  And,  cheer  up,  the  worst  is  yet  to 
come !  I'm  going  to  be  a  heater's  helper,  next  week." 

"That  sounds  dangerous,  too." 

"It's  not.  It's  a  big  promotion.  I  shall  earn  four 
and  five  dollars  a  day." 

"Is  that  good  wages  ?" 

"Very." 

"Where  do  you  live?  Write  it  on  a  card,  will 
you  ?"  And  as  Johnny  obeyed :  "Take  one  of  my 
cards  and  tack  it  on  to  your  clothes ;  how  many  suits 
do  you  have  ?  Take  a  number  and  tack  one  on  each 
coat,  so  if  you  meet  with  any  accident  I'll  know  it. 
I  don't  think  much  of  your  trade  for  safety.  Talk 
ing  of  accidents,  I  wonder  were  you  ever  in  the 
Presbyterian  Hospital  ?" 

.      Johnny  admitted  that  he  had  been  in  the  Presby 
terian  Hospital. 

Mrs.  Winter  nodded.  "I  heard  of  you;  the  nurses 
and  the  superintendent  were  very  taken  with  your 
polite  manners." 

"I'm  glad  I  didn't  discredit  my  class.  Working- 
men  are  fine  fellows." 

"You  still  think  that,  and  still  know  more  than 
your  father  ?" 

"I  still  think  that;  but  so  did  my  father,  and  he 
knew  a  lot  more  than  I." 

"About  labor?" 
"About  everything." 

Mrs.  Winter  leaned  back ;  a  strikingly  handsome, 
elderly  woman— past  seventy,  Johnny  knew,  did  he 
stop  to  think,  but  no  one  ever  stopped  to  think  about 
Mrs.  Winter's  years.  She  did  not  defy  the  approach 
of  age  for  a  good  reason, — age  did  not  approach 


'KEEP  BACK!"  SAID  HE.     "HES  DEAD;  YOU'VE  KILLED  HIM  ALL  KIGHT!  "       /. 


JOHNNY   MEETS   AN   OLD   FRIEND          341 

her.  The  supple  and  erect  form  on  the  red  brocaded 
sofa,  which  had  waltzed  with  the  blue  and  gold  uni 
forms  of  the  Civil  War,  two  years  after  this  speak 
ing  was  agile  enough  to  tread  a  measure  with  the 
clay-colored  khaki  of  the  Spanish  volunteers;  her 
lustrous  eyes  were  undimmed  and  her  delicate  skin 
singularly  free  from  wrinkles ;  if  her  black  hair  had 
turned  gray,  it  was  still,  to  all  appearances,  abund 
ant,  with  a  burnished  gloss,  not  a  dead  or  faded 
grayness ;  and  when  she  smiled  she  showed  her  own 
white  teeth.  She  was  not  smiling  now,  but  view 
ing  the  young  man  with  much  gravity. 

"Do  you  prefer  your  new  class  to  your  old  class?" 
were  her  first  words. 

"No,"  said  Johnny. 

"Do  you  prefer  your  new  mode  of  life  to  your 
old?" 

"No,"  said  Johnny. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  give  it  all  up  and  come 
back?" 

"Ah,  that's  too  complicated.  I  can't  get  back,  for 
one  thing." 

"But  you  can.  Have  you  ever  thought,  Johnny, 
that  the  loss  of  your  fortune  isn't  irretrievable?  You 
have  until  you  are  thirty.  If  you  can  make  one  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars  before  you  are  thirty,  you 
will  have  all  your  share  of  your  father's  fortune." 

Johnny  studied  the  toes  of  his  best  shoes,  and  his 
mouth  puckered  rather  ruefully.  "I  have,  since  I 
left  college,  up  to  date,  been  able  to  save  just  forty- 
eight  dollars  and  fifty  cents,"  said  he;  "that  doesn't 
look  as  if  I'd  be  a  bloated  capitalist  in  a  hurry,  does 
it?  But  I'll  tell  you  my  plan.  I  wanted  to  learn  the 


342  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

plow  business — go  through  all  the  branches ;  but  the 
union  requirements  for  apprentices  are  pretty  stiff; 
so,  as  I  had  a  chance  to  get  into  steel  in  an  open 
shop,  I  went  in.  I  mean  to  learn  the  business,  all  the 
branches,  be  able  to  be  rougher,  finisher,  roller, 
heater,  melter,  mechanic — know  the  business.  Then 
with  customary  assurance  I  shall  try  to  convince 
some  company  that  I'm  just  the  man  they  want  to 
put  in  charge  of  a  rolling-mill  or  an  open  hearth 
plant.  I  shall  jump  to  three  or  four  thousand  a  year 
and  have  my  dress-suit  pressed,  if  the  moths  haven't 
eaten  it  up.  And  then — well,  then,  I  shall  have  my 
foot  on  the  ladder.  But  it  will  take  longer  than  five 
years  to  make  good  so  I  could  claim  what  I  might 
have  had." 

Mrs.  Winter  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Johnny,  your 
father  would  be  mighty  happy  if  he  could  hear  you 
talk  that  way.  I  believe,  for  all  your  charm,  you 
have  a  heap  of  sense." 

"I'm  afraid  you  think  I  am  expecting  to  get  on 
too  fast.  Very  likely  I  am;  but  that  is  what  I  am 
trying  for.  Then  I  have  another  chance.  I  can  be 
organizer,  business  agent,  what  you  would  call  a 
walking  delegate,  and  try  to  make  the  unions  stand 
for  something  better  than  striking, — be  the  kind  of 
labor  leader  Billy  Bates  is.  That  is  what  I  set  out 
to  be." 

"Well,  but—" 

"That's  it.  But.  Maybe  my  'but'  isn't  the  same 
as  yours,  but  it  comes  to  the  same  conclusion.  I  am 
not  free  to  try.  Maybe,  anyhow,  I  can  help  them 
better  as  an  employer  than  directly  on  their  side. 
But  some  one,  I  hope  Billy  Bates,  is  going  to  show 


JOHNNY   MEETS   AN   OLD   FRIEND          343 

the  unions  that  they  haven't  begun  to  do  half  what 
they  can  do  for  their  men.  Why,  just  take  this  one 
point  of  protection;  the  union  only  protects  the 
workingman  from  his  immediate  employer,  who,  in 
nine  out  of  ten  cases,  is  the  mildest  of  his  oppress 
ors;  the  poor  fellow  has  no  shield  against  the  in 
stalment  Shylock,  who  takes  three  or  four  prices  out 
of  him,  and  then  the  goods,  themselves,  if  the  last 
ounce  of  the  pound  of  flesh  isn't  forthcoming!  Or 
against  the  rascally  landlord  who  charges  extor 
tionate  rent  for  pestilential  fire-traps !  Or  the  charla 
tans  who  fatten  on  the  poor  fellow's  trustfulness  in 
those  who  profess  to  be  his  friends !  Or  the  sham 
doctors  who  fleece  him  and  poison  him  and  kill  him, 
and  charge  his  widow  for  the  murder !  The  destruc 
tion  of  the  poor  is  their  poverty;  there's  nothing 
truer  in  the  Bible.  But  only  in  a  few  cases  does  a 
man's  union  lift  a  hand  for  him,  outside  of  his  shop. 
They  ought.  And,  in  the  shops,  the  root  of  the  whole 
matter,  as  Billy  says,  is  that  the  unions  haven't  yet 
learned,  though  they  have  begun  to  learn,  that  the 
real  way  to  better  the  condition  of  workingmen  is 
to  make  them  better  workers!  The  unions  have 
taken  about  all  they  can  from  the  share  of  the  em 
ployer.  The  only  way  for  the  men  to  get  more, 
permanently,  is  to  produce  more.  It  used  to  make 
me  tired  when  the  boys  kicked  at  my  doing  so  much. 
Putting  up  wages  and  prices  all  round  helps  no  one 
— instead,  it  is  apt  to  bring  on  a  collapse — but  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Aunty  Winter,  I  am  going  on  like  a 
house-afire,  not  giving  you  a  chance  to  escape !" 
"Never  mind  me,  Johnny ;  I  like  to  hear  you." 
"But  I  may  be  tiring  you ;  as  for  me,  I  never  go 


344  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

to  bed  so  long  as  I  can  get  anybody  to  listen  to  my 
artless  prattle." 

"But,  Johnny-Ivan,  tell  me ;  how  do  you  expect  to 
convert  your  unions?" 

"Well,  I  told  you ;  I  don't ;  there  are  Billy  Bates, 
and  Arthur  and  Sargent,  and  there's  a  young  fel 
low  named  Mitchell  coming  on, — that's  the  crowd 
I  expect  to  do  the  John-the-Baptist  stunt.  As  I'm 
situated,  I  can  only  be  the  man  behind  the  gun." 

"It  will  amount,  virtually,"  said  Mrs.  Winter 
musingly,  "it  will  amount  to  converting  the  unions ; 
and,  for  that  matter,  the  manufacturers  are  about  as 
stupid ;  and  sometimes  I  think  they  are  not  so  willing 
to  learn.  The  trouble  is,  it  is  only  a  question  of  in 
terest,  and  they  haven't  either  of  them  the  sense  to 
see  where  their  interest  lies." 

But  Johnny,  who  had  jumped  up  and  was  pacing 
the  floor,  spouting  jets  of  oratory,  like  a  perambu 
lating  volcano,  broke  in :  "There  is  where  I  disagree 
with  you,  Aunty  Winter ;  on  all  hands  you  hear  the 
same  story;  how  materialistic  we  Americans  are. 
We  are  not!  We  are  sentimental  idealists!  I  know 
the  workingmen  are — " 

"The  socialists  may  be." 

"All  of  us.  There's  a  notion  nowadays  that  most 
of  them  are  forced  into  the  union.  Undoubtedly 
some  are ;  but  a  good  many  more  pretend  to  be,  to 
stand  in  with  the  employers  and  carry  water  on 
both  shoulders.  Do  you  think  that  it  is  the  material 
benefits  of  a  union  that  attract  the  men  most?  My 
dear  Aunty  Winter,  a  skilled  workman  doesn't  need 
the  union ;  he  can  get  his  price,  even  a  bad  year  like 
this,  without  paying  dues  and  risking  having  to 


JOHNNY   MEETS   AN'  OLD   FRIEND          345 

stop  work  to  help  somebody  else.  Yet  he  joins. 
Why  ?  Because  he  is  an  idealist.  Because  he  is  will 
ing  to  sacrifice  himself  to  help  the  others.  He  is  the 
fellow  who  goes  into  a  strike  last — and  gives  it  up 
last !  Well,  there  is  another  reason  why  he  believes 
in  the  unions;  it  isn't  such  a  high  reason,  but  it  is 
purely  sentimental,  too.  You  don't  know  how  lonely 
a  poor  man  is.  He  is  so  unfriended  and  so  be 
wildered.  He  is  always  being  shoved  aside.  Some 
times  he  is  crushed  by  his  loneliness;  sometimes  he 
turns  sullen.  In  either  case,  put  him  into  a  union. 
He  feels  he  is  part  of  a  great  organization  of 
brothers.  Send  him  on  a  committee  to  anybody,  no 
matter  how  unimportant;  he  is  no  longer  insignifi 
cant;  he  has  a  power  behind  him,  and  he  can  give 
back  talk  freely.  He  does,  too,  if  he  is  fresh,  in  a 
new  union.  But  you  see  that  is  all  sentiment." 

"Well,  don't  you  think  there  is  a  heap  of  senti 
ment  in  this  envy  and  hatred  of  the  poor  for  the 
rich,  which  seems  the  fashion?  Johnny,  the  manu 
facturers  don't  continually  grind  the  faces  of  their 
men  nowadays,  whatever  they  used  to  do." 

"Poor  people  have  a  hard  time,  you  see;  and 
they  don't  always  hit  the  right  quarter  guessing 
where  their  misfortunes  come  from.  Oh,  yes,  there  is 
a  lot  of  sentiment  about  that,  of  course.  Part  of  the 
bitterness  comes  from  the  fact  that  the  men  and  their 
employers  have  so  little  personal  intercourse.  You 
can't  feel  so  bitter  toward  a  man  that  calls  you  by 
your  name,  and  perhaps  has  advised  you  in  difficulty, 
or  lent  you  a  little  money  in  trouble,  as  you  can  to 
an  unknown  corporation.  Why,  even  boys,  who  are 
less  accessible  to  compassion  than  any  known  ani- 


346  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

mal,  I  do  believe,  even  boys  show  that.  After  they 
get  acquainted,  they  let  up  on  their  hazing.  It  never 
lasts  the  year  through. 

"Another  reason  is  not  sentimental  at  first  sight, 
yet  it  has  its  ideal  side.  Unhappily,  the  old  notion 
that  any  saving,  self-denying,  industrious  working- 
man  might  rise  to  be  something  better  and  employ 
men  on  his  own  account,  is  about  gone.  Most  wage- 
earners  expect  to  live  and  die  wage-earners,  and  it 
makes  an  awful  difference.  Their  whole  effort,  now, 
is  not  to  get  on,  which  involves  making  their  em 
ployers'  interest  their  own;  not  at  all;  they  don't 
expect  to  get  on;  what  they  strain  every  nerve  for 
is  to  get  as  much  money  for  as  little  work  as  possi 
ble,  so  they  will  be  able  to  work  as  long  as  possible 
and  lay  up  as  much." 

"That's  short-sighted." 

"Of  course,  but  natural, — almost  inevitable.  And 
it  is  hard  making  them  understand.  I  think  I  could 
show  the  advantages  of  a  good  job  as  well  to  an 
employer  as  a  workingman." 

"I  do,  too,  Johnny.  And  now  let's  come  to  the 
point.  I  believe  in  you.  Why  don't  you  let  me  lend 
you  some  money — " 

Johnny  stirred  as  if  to  speak,  but  she  stopped  him, 
autocratically.  "You'll  refuse,  of  course,  but  let  me 
make  the  proposition.  It  will  always  be  open.  Let 
me  lend  you  ten  thousand  at  six  per  cent,  for  ten 
years.  I'll  lend  it  to  you  in  Old  Colony  Plow  stock 
at  par — " 

"It's  worth  more,"  interrupted  Johnny. 

"Not  in  the  open  market.  You'll  be  a  stock 
holder  ;  you  can  go  to  the  meetings ;  you  can  look  at 


JOHNNY   MEETS   AN   OLD   FRIEND          347 

the  books,  and  you  can  have  a  position  with  us.   Oh, 
we'll  get  the  worth  of  our  money,  Johnny." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Winter,  but  it's  impossible." 

"You  needn't  be  cross  and  stiff,  Johnny — that's 
better."  Johnny  was  on  one  knee  before  her. 

"You  know  I'm  grateful,"  he  cried;  "I  can't  tell 
you  how  awfully  good  I  think  you  are!  I'll  never 
forget  it  and  it  will  cheer  me  up  always  to  think 
of  your  having  such  confidence  in  me.  But  let  me 
make  myself  worth  helping  first." 

Mrs.  Winter  rumpled  his  thick  hair  with  her  deli 
cate  hand,  which  did  not  look  like  an  old  hand ;  she 
smiled  on  him  pensively,  but  he  could  not  see  the 
smile,  and  her  voice  was  light :  "Very  well.  It  will 
all  come  right,  Johnny.  But  tell  me  more  about  the 
unions.  They  seem  about  as  biggitty  now  as  they 
can  be." 

"That's  your  beautiful,  feminine  ignorance, 
Aunty  Winter,"  said  Johnny,  rising  and  sitting  be 
side  her  on  the  sofa.  "Wait  until  we  organize  the 
waiters  and  shut  up  the  dining-rooms  of  the  An 
nex  and  the  Metropole;  wait  until  we  organize  the 
teamsters  and  make  you  burn  coal  in  summer  in 
stead  of  natural  gas,  so  we  can  have  the  job  of  haul 
ing  it;  wait  until  the  retail  clerks  and  the  servant 
girls  are  organized,  and  the  organized  laundry-work 
ers  shut  off  clean  linen  from  Chicago;  wait  until 
the  cabmen  and  the  undertakers'  men  strike,  and 
you  have  to  be  buried  in  an  express  wagon  or  a 
street-car — you  would  dislike  that — " 

"I  certainly  should ;  but  I  don't  think  you  will  go 
quite  to  such  lengths;  if  you  do,  the  long-suffering 
public  will  organize,  too,  and  put  a  stop  to  your 


348  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

foolishness,  if  not  to  your  unions.  I  don't  think  you 
take  a  very  cheerful  view  of  your  case,  after  all." 

"Well,"  Johnny  corrected,  "the  cheerfulness  isn't 
on  the  surface,  but  it's  there,  all  right.  Whatever 
their  faults,  the  unions  have  done  a  great  big  lot 
apart,  quite  apart,  from  any  question  of  raising 
wages;  they  have  educated  the  men  to  work  to 
gether.  The  leaders  can  organize." 

"Yes,  they  have  organized  plunder." 

"You  will  admit  it  is  organized,"  bantered  John 
ny,  "and  if  they  have  learned  to  work  together  in  a 
bad  cause  (mind,  /  don't  admit  that),  why  shouldn't 
they  work  together  for  something  better?" 

"Well,  what  else?"  The  situation  pleased  Mrs. 
Winter.  In  the  first  place,  she  was  genuinely  de 
lighted  to  capture  Johnny.  Her  vanity  was  tickled, 
and  a  certain  softness,  which  she  always  felt  for  the 
lad,  grew  with  every  glimpse  of  his  handsome  face. 
On  the  whole,  she  liked  the  face  better  for  the 
changes  in  it,  although  the  lines  about  the  eyes  irri 
tated  her.  "The  boy  has  been  most  absurdly  misera 
ble,"  she  grumbled  within  herself.  Mrs.  Winter  felt 
repelled  by  suffering  as  by  snow  in  spring.  But  it 
was  distinctly  exciting  to  have  found  him,  to  have 
succeeded,  when  Emma  Winslow,  who  was  so  clever, 
had  failed. 

"Well,  we've  learned  to  respect  our  word,  that's  a 
lot.  We've  learned  to  obey, — a  lot  more.  We  are 
getting  acquainted  with  our  employers — fighting 
them.  But  it  is  better  to  get  acquainted  fighting 
than  not  to  get  acquainted  at  all !  We're  not  dumb, 
driven  cattle  any  more,  even  if  we're  not  heroes  in 
the  strife.  Our  discontent  has  ceased  to  be  inarticu- 


JOHNNY    MEETS   AN    OLD    FRIEND  349 

late  despair.  Now  all  these  things  will  not  be  lost 
even  though  the  high  tide  of  unionism  recedes.  The 
wrecking  party  will  find  them." 

"Then,  you  have  really  got  over  your  socialism, 
Jo'nivan?" 

"I  wouldn't  say  quite  that,  Aunty  Winter," 
Johnny  corrected,  his  eyes  narrowing  as  they  always 
narrowed  when  he  was  trying  to  think  with  exact 
ness.  "But  laws  have  to  be  made  for  men  as  they 
are,  not  as  they  ought  to  be.  I  have  discovered,  too, 
that  underneath  a  lot  of  this  raging  against  great 
fortunes  is  not  so  much  pity  and  patriotism  as 
hatred,  envy  and  malice.  Some  of  this  comes  out 
of  real  misery ;  that's  dangerous.  But  that  will  dis 
appear  in  a  great  measure  with  better  times.  But 
the  feeling  against  these  swollen  fortunes  isn't,  by 
any  means,  all  selfish.  It  has  ground.  But  it  is 
blind;  it  can't  see  that  it  isn't  the  size  of  a  man's 
fortune  that  is  dangerous  to  the  public ;  it  is  how  he 
made  it." 

"For  instance?" 

"Well,  to  increase  the  production  of  the  world, 
whether  that  production  shall  make  for  beauty  or 
happiness  or  material  comfort  or  moral  elevation, 
we  need  brains!  And,  as  a  rule,  brains  will  not 
work  without  reward !  Without  big  rewards.  Now, 
speaking  only  of  the  industrial  world,  I  don't  grudge 
millions  to  the  men  who  can  get  hard  wheat  planted 
instead  of  soft,  or  run  the  corn-yield  up  from  thirty 
to  fifty  bushels  an  acre,  or  irrigate  the  desert,  or 
increase  a  man's  capacity  by  machinery  a  hundred 
fold,  or  devise  ways  of  economy  in  manufacturing 
or  using  up  the  by-products.  Men  who  use  other 


35° 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 


mens'  muscles  and  brains  to  increase  the  working 
capital  of  the  world  are  worth  more  millions  than 
the  luckiest  of  them  get — I  see  that  now.  There's  one 
big  division.  Men  who  see  clearly  have  no  kick  com 
ing  against  the  real  captains  of  industry;  but  it  is 
the  men  who  make  their  money,  not  out  of  the 
earth,  but  Wall  Street,  who  get  more  than  is  coming 
to  them.  If  the  wreckers  can  make  more  money 
than  the  ship-owners,  it's  bad !  And  if  manipulating 
is  a  lot  more  profitable  than  producing,  that  is  very 
bad." 

"You  mean — well,  apply  the  case  to  the  Old 
Colony !" 

"That's  easy.  If  you  can  make  rakes  and  culti 
vators  cheaper  and  better  than  your  competitors,  it's 
for  the  public  interest  that  you  should  have  the  most 
business, — all  you  can  get.  But  if  you  get  rebates 
on  the  railways,  so  that  you  strangle  your  competi 
tors  who  make  just  as  good  stuff  as  you — that's 
distinctly  against  the  public  weal.  You  get  your 
market  not  by  production,  but  by  manipulation." 

"And  you  think  the  Government  ought  to  inter 
fere?" 

"Yes.  But  here  comes  up  another  point.  There 
are  public  and  private  businesses.  I  am  socialist 
enough  to  think  that  if  you  mix  these  up  you  will 
come  to  trouble.  For  instance,  a  railway  is  dis 
tinctly  a  public  business;  as  a  public  business  it 
should  play  fair  to  all.  Every  one  ought  to  have  as 
much  right  to  the  highway  as  every  one  else;  and 
the  railway  is  the  highway  to-day." 

"Then  you  believe  in  Government  ownership  of 
railways?" 


JOHNNY   MEETS   AN   OLD    FRIEND          351 

"No.  See  how  far  I  have  traveled.  I  believe  the 
Government  has  a  right  to  run  the  railways,  but  I 
am  sure  it  would  be  a  stupendous  folly  for  them  to 
use  it.  We  want  to  encourage  initiative,  not  repress 
it;  and  our  civil  service  has  a  long  way  to  travel 
before  it  can  be  trusted  with  any  such  job.  Besides, 
no  more  shaking  of  values.  No  more  panics  for  me ! 
I've  seen  one,  and  it  will  do  me.  Wherever  it  starts, 
it's  the  poor  man  always  gets  the  ball  at  the  heaviest ! 
No;  if  railway  stocks  are  watered,  better  evaporate 
than  squeeze.  Let  the  Government  regulate  the  rail 
ways,  not  own  them !  Give  them  a  show  for  their 
white  alley !  Go  slow !" 

Thus  Johnny  unbosomed  himself,  and  Mrs.  Win 
ter  led  him  on.  By  degrees  he  confided  some  of 
his  experiences  to  her.  Her  cynical  enjoyment  of 
the  humor  of  them  and  her  gliding  over  the  deeper 
emotions  was  better  for  him  than  sympathy,  for  it 
made  talk  easy.  Johnny  came  again,  and  more 
than  once.  Some  obscure  fiber  of  pride  in  him 
would  not  let  him  dine  with  her  or  go  out  with  her 
to  amusements;  but  he  would  present  himself  later 
in  the  evening,  and  the  hospitable  Southerner,  who 
could  not  conceive  of  friendly  intercourse  quite 
bare  of  eatables  or  potables,  was  likely  to  have  large 
cups  of  coffee  with  cream,  and  liqueurs  or  cocktails 
or  wines  on  the  table  with  the  cigarettes. 

By  degrees  Johnny  slipped  into  confidences  of  the 
lighter  order.  And  one  of  his  first  subjects  was 
"his  kidlets." 

"What  kind  of  clothes  ought  little  girls  to  wear  ?" 
he  asked  one  Sunday  afternoon. 

"Oh,  any  simple  things,"  returned  Mrs.  Winter, 


352  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

who  was  innocent  of  much  beyond  the  rudiments, 
not  having  interfered  with  any  child's  toilet  since 
Johnny's  childhood. 

"Well,  they  ought  to  be  fastened  by  buttons,  not 
by  safety-pins  and  shoe-strings,  oughtn't  they? 
Amelia  Ann's  got  the  greatest  layout  of  shoe-strings 
I  ever  discovered  on  one  person ;  she  picked  them  up 
in  the  street,  I  guess;  she  mends  her  clothes  with 
them — that  isn't  quite  good  form,  is  it?  Mrs.  De- 
laney  told  her  it  was  naughty,  and  Amelia  Ann,  who 
has  considerable  spirit,  felt  wounded  and  ran  away — 
Amelia  Ann's  protest  against  the  conventionalities 
always  takes  the  form  of  running  away.  Or  rather, 
she  doesn't  run  away,  she  hides;  and  poor  little 
Franzy  goes  without  his  own  piece  to  feed  her.  It 
doesn't  strike  me  as  quite  right — child's  going  with 
out  her  bath  and  skulking  about  out  of  school  that 
way,  but — I  can't  make  up  my  mind  to  let  Mrs. 
Delaney  beat  her,  as  she  hankers  to  do." 

"How  many  children  are  there?" 

"Three.  Franzy  and  Thyrza  are  all  right,  but 
Amelia  Ann  is  a  handful.  Thyrza  takes  to  house 
work — why,  she's  a  wonder !" 

"Does  she  mend  with  shoe-strings  ?" 

"Well,  no;  that's  Amelia  Ann's  patent;  but  she 
doesn't  look  just  right  in  her  clothes.  Mrs.  Delaney 
is  so  afraid  they'll  outgrow  their  clothes  that  she 
buys  a  size  or  two  ahead;  and  she  generally  buys 
the  bargains  that  are  left  over  and  marked  down  and 
have  been  shopworn  or  stained  or  saved  from  a  fire 
or  whatever ;  so  poor  little  Thyrza,  who  has  hair  in 
clining  to  red,  usually  trips  about  in  a  Harvard 
sweater,  or  a  blue  and  green  Highland  costume. 


JOHNNY    MEETS   AN   OLD    FRIEND  353 

And  once  Mrs.  Delaney  purchased  some  off 
numbers  of  union  suits  that  had  gone  through  fire 
and  water  and  been  scorched  in  the  legs.  She  cut 
off  the  legs  and  took  tucks  in  the  arms,  and  Thyrza 
wore  the  shirt  as  an  outside  rig.  Exclusively  for 
the  house,  you  know.  I  got  her  a  little  blue  jacket 
to  go  to  school." 

Mrs.  Winter  held  an  interview  with  her  own  par 
ticular  salesman  at  Field's,  in  Johnny's  behalf.  She 
invested  the  money  which  he  had  given  her.  The 
sight  of  the  money,  neatly  inclosed  in  a  pay  en 
velope,  gave  Mrs.  Winter's  seasoned  old  heart  an 
unexpected  twinge ;  it  was  so  small  a  sum,  yet  it  rep 
resented  so  much  self-denial. 

"Johnny,  Johnny,"  she  exploded,  "will  you  never 
learn  to  look  after  your  own  troubles  and  let  other 
people's  alone !" 

"Ah,  but,  you  see,  these  are  my  own  troubles ;  and, 
bless  you !  you  needn't  think  I  tote  this  load  all  by 
myself ;  there's  Billy,  who  joshes  me  worse  than  you, 
but  has  bought  Mrs.  Delaney  a  cook-stove  and 
given  the  kids  their  shoes — I  do  wish  Mrs.  Delaney 
wouldn't  buy  needle-toes  because  they're  cheap — 
and  he  got  the  biggest  boy  on  the  city  pay-roll  and 
the  youngest  apprenticed  to  a  plumber,  and  helped 
get  Delaney  into  the  pen." 

"The  pen?" 

"Penitentiary;  he's  got  fifteen  years;  so  he's  off 
our  minds  for  a  while.  Billy  is  the  best  ever !  You 
must  see  Billy." 

"I've  seen  his  picture.  You  know  he's  a  sweet 
heart  in  Fairport  ?" 

"Has  he  ?"  parried  Johnny. 


354  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"At  least  he  comes  to  see  her  often.  She  has  a  sis 
ter  who  does  dressmaking,  and  does  all  my  simple 
things.  She  has  told  me.  He  sends  her  candy  and 
flowers  and  books  and  I  suspect  valentines." 

"Well,  that  looks  serious," — Johnny,  having  writ 
ten  the  valentines,  would  have  liked  to  question 
further. 

"I  think  it  is  serious,  because  she  has  never  shown 
the  valentines." 

"They  were  probably  original  and  awful,"  sug 
gested  Johnny  placidly. 

"Maybe.  Then,  it's  more  serious,  for  she  seemed 
impressed  with  them.  She's  a  nice,  quiet  girl, — 
pretty,  too.  And  Peggy  Rutherford  says  both  the 
girls  have  been  very  good  to  their  mother.  Peggy 
and  Emma  Winslow  both  seem  to  take  the  most 
amazing  interest  in  your  Billy  Bates." 

Johnny  felt  his  heart  grow  warmer.  "Billy's  a 
good  one,"  said  he,  "and  he  is  going  to  be  a  great 
man.  A  labor  leader  like  Arthur  or  Sargent  is  a 
big  force." 

"I  have  noticed," — Mrs.  Winter  looked,  languidly, 
full  at  Johnny  as  she  spoke — "I  have  noticed, 
Johnny,  you  seem  to  know  a  heap  about  Fairport 
doings.  Does  Billy  Bates  keep  you  so  well  in 
formed  ?" 

Johnny  laughed  frankly.  "Oh,  Billy  isn't  my 
only  link  with  the  good  old  town — Roger  sends  me 
the  Fairport  Citizen" 

"Roger?" 

"Roger  Mack  is  his  name.  He's  the  link.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  him?  I  think  he  is  employed  in 
Luke  DarreH's  livery  stable." 


JOHNNY   MEETS   AN   OLD    FRIEND          355 

Mrs.  Winter  shook  her  head.     "Never  saw  him." 

"It's  rather  interesting.  I  never  saw  him,  either — 
to  remember.  Last  Christmas  I  got  a  letter  from 
Michael,  and  there  was  a  letter  from  Roger  Mack  in 
it.  He's  a  Fairport  boy  who  used  to  live  near  us  and 
steal  rides  on  the  railway.  Once  he  got  into  our 
carriage  when  the  coppers  were  after  him,  and 
Mishka,  of  course,  was  in  sympathy  with  any  victim 
of  the  law ;  so  he  whipped  up  and  saved  the  crowd. 
There  were  two  or  three  of  them.  I  don't  know 
whether  Peggy  was  among  them  or  not." 

"Ah,  I  see !"  murmured  Mrs.  Winter  softly. 

"He  recalled  the  incident  and  wanted  to  tell  me — 
oh,  a  lot  of  tommy-rot  about  my  giving  that  money. 
He  was  pretty  nutty,  there,  and  I  told  him  so.  Then 
— well,  I  thought  it  a  good  chance  to  hear  a  little 
about  Fairport,  and  I  asked  him  a  question  or  two, 
which  he  answered.  I've  had  a  number  of  letters 
from  him.  I  heard  about  your  building  from  him, 
and  about  Varonok  having  the  fistula — he  calls  it 
'tishulow' — and  the  big  new  horse  you  have." 

"I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Winter  again.  "Then  you 
know  your  stepmother  has  given  up  her  plan  of 
going  to  Europe,  much  to  Mrs.  Raimund's  disgust." 

Johnny  nodded,  flushing  a  little.  Then  he  be 
gan  to  describe  Roger  Mack,  who,  it  seemed,  now 
wrote  him  every  other  Sunday  night  regularly. 
Roger  appeared  to  be  a  bright  boy.  Johnny  didn't 
know  his  age,  but  he  should  judge  he  was  about 
twenty.  He  was  an  orphan  who  had  been  obliged  to 
hustle  for  himself  ever  since  he  was  a  little  boy.  It 
was  rather  a  pity,  Johnny  thought,  that  he  should  be 
in  a  stable.  Still,  Luke  Darrell  was  an  exception — 


356  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

and  Roger  Mack  was  a  clean,  decent,  honorable  little 
horseman,  to  all  appearances.  He  was  trying  to 
educate  himself,  too;  wrote  a  very  fair  hand,  and 
could  use  the  typewriter ;  trying  to  get  into  the  office. 
Yes,  he  had  a  letter  of  Roger's — he  kept  the  letters. 
He  would  bring  it  round. 

He  brought  the  letter.  Mrs.  Winter  was  going 
home  on  the  following  morning,  and  she  had  de 
clined  several  rather  tempting  invitations  for  that 
evening,  not  because  Johnny  had  promised  to  come, 
for  he  had  not,  but  because  she  felt  sure  of  seeing 
him,  since  she  had  written  him  that  she  was  going. 
But  it  was  nine  and  she  was  in  a  very  testy  humor 
before  the  bell-boy  brought  her  maid  the  card. 

She  did  not  see  her  path  shining  clear  before  her. 
She  had  promised  Johnny  not  to  write  or  to  speak 
to  any  one  about  their  meeting,  if  he  would  come  to 
see  her.  The  reticence  was  easy  enough  in  Chicago, 
but  to-morrow  she  would  be  returning  to  Fairport. 
She  had  a  well-defined  suspicion  in  regard  to  Roger 
Mack;  her  suspicions  seldom  played  her  false.  Yet 
there  was  a  possibility  that  a  real  Roger  might 
shamble  into  Luke  Darrell's  office,  to  her  confound 
ing,  or  some  other  than  Peggy  might  have  stolen  his 
role.  She  guessed  that  both  of  her  neighbors  were 
unhappy,  however  cheerful.  She  wanted  to  comfort 
them;  she  also  wanted  to  display  her  own  success 
with  the  prodigal.  All  of  which  increased  her  irrita 
tion  when  Johnny  did  not  appear  early  for  the  appeal 
which  she  was  plotting.  Her  good  humor  was  so 
far  in  arrears  that  even  his  coming  did  not  restore 
it,  and  she  greeted  him  less  cordially  than  usual. 

"I  had  some  very  nice  sandwiches  and  some  coffee 


JOHNNY   MEETS   AN    OLD   FRIEND          357 

ready  for  you  at  eight,"  she  complained  testily,  "but 
I  don't  know  what  condition  they're  in  now." 

"We  had  a  rush  order,  you  see,"  deprecated 
Johnny.  "I'm  awfully  sorry ;  I  didn't  know  you  ex 
pected  me." 

"Of  course  I  expected  you,  when  I  was  going 
away  the  next  day." 

Johnny  sighed,  looking  around  him.  "How 
lovely  it  looks !  How  I  am  going  to  miss  you !" 

"Are  you  going  to  give  me  a  chance  to  see  you 
some  more?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  would  better  know.  Johnny,  I've  been  un 
commonly  patient  for  an  impatient  old  woman,  such 
as  I  am.  You  might  promise  me  something;  will 
you?" 

"It  seems  most  ungracious  to  bargain  with  a  lady, 
you  know ;  but  won't  you  tell  me  what  ?" 

Mrs.  Winter  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm;  she  was 
not  used  to  stoop  to  conquer,  and  she  had  never 
studied  persuasion ;  but  her  tones  were  almost  plead 
ing. 

"Let  me  tell  your  people,  Mrs.  Winslow — and 
Peggy — about  seeing  you." 

"If  you  wish,"  said  Johnny.  But  although  he 
said  it  quietly,  he  was  on  his  feet  with  the  words, 
professing  a  hunger  for  coffee  and  sandwiches.  It 
was  evident  that  he  did  not  want  any  discussion 
of  his  surrender.  After  the  repast  he  took  out 
Roger  Mack's  letter.  By  that  time  Mrs.  Winter 
judged  it  wise  not  to  give  him  any  chance  to  hedge 
in  his  consent  by  conditions  or  reservations;  hence 
she  avoided  the  subject  as  warily  as  he.  However, 


358  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

Roger  Mack's  letter  did  something  to  enlighten  her. 
It  ran  as  follows : 

Fairport,  October  15,  1896. 
Friend  Johnny : 

Yours  of  the  loth  is  at  hand  and  contents  duly 
noted.  I  have  learned  the  poetry  by  heart.  I  guess 
I  know  how  that  man  felt.  I'm  a  pretty  lonesome 
chap  myself,  with  no  near  kin  in  these  parts,  though 
I  oughtn't  to  say  that,  for  I  have  good  friends. 
Well,  old  Fairport  is  about  the  same,  only  dirtier 
since  the  rain.  It  certainly  did  make  a  mess  of  the 
country  road,  and  I  pity  the  washers  these  days.  I 
drove  Mrs.  Winslow  and  Miss  Rutherford  out  yes 
terday.  They  were  down  town  and  their  carriage 
broke  down,  and  I  drove  them  home,  while  their 
man  stayed  and  had  the  carriage  mended ;  it  was  the 
whiffletree  broke.  They  don't  build  carriages  like 
they  did,  Mr.  Rand  says. 

I  will  remember  what  you  say  about  betting  on 
horses.  Right  you  are,  too.  I  don't  smoke  much ; 
and  I  don't  care  for  whisky,  it  makss  me  sick.  Once 
in  a  while  I  take  a  glass  of  beer  or  such,  but  I  never 
got  drunk  in  my  life.  There's  no  money  in  it.  I 
don't  go  with  any  girls,  and  I  don't  mean  to.  Mr. 
Darrell  has  had  his  stable  painted,  and  he  has  got  the 
loveliest  new  landau  for  pall-bearers.  Mrs.  Winslow 
gave  me  a  dollar  yesterday.  I  wish  I  could  get  to 
drive  for  them.  They  are  such  nice  folks.  Say, 
maybe  I  hadn't  ought  to  tell  it,  but  I  think  they  are 
awful  cut  up  about  your  leaving  them.  Miss  Ruther 
ford  she  said,  as  we  were  down  below  on  the  Hill 
Road  and  looked  up,  "Don't  the  place  look  sweet, 


JOHNNY   MEETS   AN   OLD   FRIEND          359 

Cousin  Emma?"  And  I  felt  sorry  for  Mrs.  Wins- 
low,  her  voice  sounded  so  sad  when  she  answered, 
"Johnny  ought  to  see  it.  Do  you  think  he  will  ever 
come  back,  Peggy?"  says  she.  But  Miss  Rutherford 
spoke  up  as  chipper,  "Of  course  he'll  come  back, 
honey;  Jo'nivan  will  come  back  soon's  he  finds  how 
sorely  we  need  him."  Then  they  spoke  so  low  I 
couldn't  hear  them.  I  guess  they  didn't  know  I 
heard  so  much.  Excuse  the  presumption  of  me  giv 
ing  you  advice,  but  I  wish  you'd  write  to  them  or 
something.  It  looked  lonesome  to  me,  that  big 
house  and  the  gardens.  The  gardens  look  beautiful 
now.  Please  write  to  me  sometimes;  I  value  your 
letters  very  high  and  try  to  live  according. 

Your  friend,  ROGER  MACK. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  Roger  Mack?"  said 
Johnny,  when  the  hand  holding  the  letter  dropped 
in  the  lady's  silken  lap. 

"He  seems  a  niceish  sort  of  boy,"  said  Mrs. 
Winter.  "I  hope  you'll  keep  track  of  him.  Another 
thing,  Johnny :  I  hope  you'll  keep  track  of  me!" 

Not  until  she  was  gone,  not,  indeed,  until  she 
was  speeding  through  the  whitish-yellow  cornfields 
of  Illinois,  the  next  morning,  did  she  recall  that,  in 
all  his  pleasant  gratitude  and  his  affection  Johnny 
had  made  no  promises.  But  she  was  jubilant  over 
her  right  to  tell  about  her  triumph.  It  was  evening 
on  her  arrival  in  Fairport;  nevertheless,  she  was 
driven  directly  to  Overlook,  and,  finding  Emma 
alone,  gave  her  the  news. 

Emma  listened  with  her  exasperating  stoicism  to 
the  recital,  only  interposing  a  question  here  and 


360  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

there.  At  the  end  she  said:  "Did  you  have  any 
address?" 

"None,"  said  Mrs.  Winter;  "he  wouldn't  give 
me  any,  only  promised  if  he  had  to  go  to  the  hos 
pital  again  to  let  me  know.  And  I  couldn't  spy  on 
him  while  he  was  trusting  me.  I  did  suggest  some 
clothes  I  bought  for  him  should  be  sent  to  his  ad 
dress  ;  but  no,  he  would  tote  them  from  my  hotel." 

"Certainly,  you  couldn't,"  agreed  Emma,  "but  we 
can.  Only  I'm  afraid,  Mrs.  Winter,  that  he  let  you 
tell  us  because  he  meant  to  make  another  move,  and 
that  if  we  find  his  lodging  house  or  who  employed 
him,  we  shall  find  him  gone." 

Mrs.  Winter's  smile  wilted.  "The  deceitful  boy !" 
she  exclaimed,  "and  I  had  his  superintendent's  ad 
dress  all  ready  for  you." 

"He  will  be  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow  sadly. 

And  she  was  right.  They  wrote  to  the  superin 
tendent,  receiving  a  civilly  curt  reply  to  the  effect 
that  Van  Galitsuin  had  left  the  employ  of  the  com 
pany  on  the  twenty-third.  They  had  never  had  his 
address.  He  was  an  industrious  and  skilful  work 
man.  They  were  sorry  to  lose  him,  but  understood 
he  was  changing  to  better  himself. 

So  the  clue  which  promised  so  much  broke  off 
short  in  their  hands. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AN    DIE   FERNE   GELIEBTE 

The  golden  woods  of  Overlook  had  crisped  into 
russet  and  drabs;  once  more  the  Christmas  snow 
was  chalking  the  tree-boughs.  Snow  was  every 
where,  on  the  fir-trees  and  the  maples,  shrouding  the 
forests,  glorifying  the  hill-slopes,  freshly  fallen, 
shadowed  with  the  subtlest  violet  tints,  or  powdered 
with  diamonds  in  the  sun,  so  beautiful,  so  mystical, 
that  the  sense  of  its  chill  was  melted  by  a  poignant 
thrill  of  delight. 

On  the  twenty-third  of  December,  with  Christmas 
two  days  away,  Peggy  and  Mrs.  Winslow  sat  to 
gether  in  the  Princess  Olga's  writing-room  much 
as  they  had  sat,  a  year  before,  when  Roger  Mack 
first  stepped  upon  the  stage.  And  both  of  them  were 
remembering  that  day.  * 

"How  much  longer  is  he  going  to  keep  it  up?" 
sighed  Mrs.  Winslow.  They  had  not  spoken  John 
ny's  name,  but  there  needed  no  speaking. 

"He  was  always  the  most  obstinate  thing  in  the 
world,"  declared  Peggy;  "he  owns  to  Roger  Mack 
that  he  misses  his  people  and  his  friends  and  his  old 
life,  but  he  would  despise  himself,  he  says,  and  they 
would  have  reason  to  despise  him,  if  he  returned  be 
fore  he  had  shown  that  he  had  stuff  instead  of  stuf 
fing  in  him." 


362  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

"Did  you  get  a  letter  to-day?" 

"Yes.   I  was  just  bringing  it  to  you  to  read." 

When  the  initial  letter  from  Johnny  came  (that 
first  intelligence  direct  from  him,  which  was  greeted 
so  hopefully  and  yet  brought  them  so  little),  Peggy 
would  have  handed  it  to  Mrs.  Winslow,  but  the  lat 
ter  shook  her  head,  saying :  "No,  dear,  I've  thought 
it  all  out.  You  must  be  able  to  speak  freely  to 
Johnny,  and  he  wouldn't  speak  so  freely  to  you  if 
he  knew  I  had  the  reading  of  his  letters.  I  shouldn't 
like  to  take  that  advantage  of  his  ignorance.  You 
will  make  Roger  Mack  a  nice  boy,  and  Johnny  will 
get  fond  of  him,  and  I  hope  you'll  be  very  good 
friends.  Read  me  anything  important,  but  keep  the 
letters." 

She  noticed  how  the  color  flickered  on  Peggy's 
cheek,  and  she  smiled  within.  "The  child  wants  her 
letters  to  herself,"  thought  she;  "there  is  no  part 
nership  in  love !  Thank  God,  I  do  believe  Peggy  is 
in  love!  If  she  only  doesn't  coquette  with  him." 

But  Peggy  scorned  the^guile  of  the  weak.  If 
Jo'nivan  came  back  he  should  come  of  his  own  free 
will,  not  prodded  by  jealousy;  and,  indeed,  since 
they  had  seen  Billy,  during  the  summer,  and  he  had 
told  them  of  Johnny's  dreary  hospital  experience, 
there  had  grown  up  in  the  girl  an  intensification  of 
the  semi-maternal  tenderness  of  her  childhood;  not 
even  to  win  him  could  she  hurt  him.  It  is  not  to  be 
inferred,  however,  because  Peggy  despised  the  help 
of  jealousy,  that  she  was  above  setting  feminine 
snares. 

Once  Johnny  had  written  to  Roger :  "You  must 
tell  me  all  the  gossip.  I  know  there  is  mighty  little 


AN   DIE   FERNE   GELIEBTE  363 

goes  on  in  Fairport  which  they  don't  hear  about  at 
Darrell's.  Who  die  and  who  are  married  and  who 
give  parties  ?  You  can't  find  anything  too  trivial  to 
interest  me.  Why,  I'd  like  to  hear  what  they  have  at 
the  Opera  House,  and  what  kind  of  clothes  Mrs. 
Winter  or  Mrs.  Winslow  or  Miss  Rutherford  are 
wearing,  when  you  see  them  pass  on  the  street. 
Who  goes  to  Overlook  now?  Have  they  any  par 
ties?  You  don't  know  how  an  exile  loves  all  the 
details."  (Peggy  giggled;  "doesn't  he  think  he's 
mighty  coony,  the  way  he  brings  that  in!")  She 
wrote  in  response:  "I  guess  I  know  just  how  you 
feel.  There's  a  town  I'd  like  to  hear  the  same  sort 
of  thing  about.  And  I'll  tell  you  all  I  can.  They 
are  pretty  quiet  at  Overlook  now.  Folks  drop  in 
considerable  and  they  have  some  little  dinners,  but 
no  big  parties.  Several  young  men  go  there  to  see 
the  ladies,  but  nobody  seems  to  be  Miss  Rutherford's 
steady.  Just  friendly.  Miss  Rutherford  has  got  a 
new  sealskin  jacket.  It's  a  bute.  When  I  make  some 
money  and  get  married,  I  mean  to  give  my  wife 
a  sealskin  jacket;  they  make  a  girl  look  so  stylish." 

Peggy  had,  indeed,  entered  into  her  drama,  and 
the  growth  of  the  character  of  Roger  Mack  was  re 
markable.  He  read  the  books  Johnny  advised,  he  re 
formed  his  grammar ;  his  morals  and  political  views 
reflected  his  mentor's  counsels  to  a  degree  that  was 
flattering,  if  it  were  not  suspicious.  And  as  Emma 
had  predicted,  Johnny  grew  fond  of  the  lad,  send 
ing  him  quantities  of  carefully  studied  advice  and 
occasional  magazines,  and  once  he  inclosed  a  note 
to  Mrs.  Winslow  (very  civil  but  a  little  cool  and 
curt;  poor  Johnny  was  having  a  bad  attack  of  nos- 


364  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

talgia,  and  not  daring  to  be  anything-  else),  request 
ing  her  to  give  Roger  Mack,  the  bearer,  for  whose 
responsibility  Mr.  Luke  Darrell  could  vouch,  cer 
tain  books  of  his  which  had  been  left  in  Fairport. 
There  was  no  place  of  writing  on  the  note,  only  a 
date. 

Some  of  Johnny's  advice,  over  which  he  had 
plainly  taken  vast  thought  and  pains,  Peggy  did  not 
read  to  Mrs.  Winslow,  but  as  she  read  it,  herself, 
the  tears  rose  to  her  eyes.  "Jo'nivan,"  she  whis 
pered,  "you  are  just  the  decent est  boy  since  Gala 
had,  and  I'm  afraid,  Jo'nivan,  he's  the  only  gentle 
man  I  know  who  can  run  in  your  class !" 

She  told  Mrs.  Winslow  a  little,  although  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  repeat  Johnny's  words,  in  which 
a  man  showed  very  simply  his  heart  and  his  aspira 
tions. 

"His  father  would  be  proud  of  him!"  was  all 
Mrs.  Winslow's  comment;  but  she  began  so  irrele 
vantly  to  talk  about  sending  Johnny  his  winter 
flannels,  that  Peggy  was  sure  she  was  touched. 

"Has  he  any  flannels  here?"  Peggy  asked  inno 
cently. 

"Not  exactly,"  returned  Mrs.  Winslow;  "there 
were  some  worn  things  which  I  gave  away.  But  I 
shall  get  him  some  in  place  of  them  and  send  them 
by  Roger  Mack." 

"Roger  has  to  send  everything  to  Billy  Bates. 
But  he'll  get  them  in  time.  He  always  gets  the  let 
ters  sharp  on  time." 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow  after  a  little  pause, 
her  eyes  on  Josiah's  portrait,  "if  I  could  only  know 
where  he  was,  so  that  I  could  be  sure  he  was  having 


AN   DIE   FERNE   GELIEBTE  365 

proper  food,  and  getting  his  stockings  mended  and 
putting  on  his  warm  underclothes  when  it  first  be 
gan  to  be  cold,  I  think  I  could  be  reconciled,  and  let 
him  take  his  own  time  about  coming  to  us." 

"Oh,  I've  no  doubt  somebody  is  pampering  him," 
said  Peggy. 

Johnny  consented  to  receive  some  of  his  own 
books  and  pictures  and  any  clothes  which  might  be 
in  Overlook. 

Roger  Mack  covered  his  large  sheets  of  office 
paper  mainly  with  apologies  for  the  box.  "It's 
kinder  a  whale,"  he  wrote,  "but  the  ladies  kept 
thinking  of  things,  and  I  couldn't  seem  to  stop  them. 
They  really  got  excited,  and  Mrs.  Winslow  would 
keep  saying  to  Miss  Rutherford,  'Don't  you  think 
we  might  venture  to  send  some  preserves  for  the 
children?'  You  see  Mrs.  Winter  told  them  a  lot 
about  you  and  'Melia  Ann  and  Thyrza  (I'm  glad 
Thyrza  liked  the  cook-book  I  sent)  and  Franzy. 
Then  Miss  Rutherford  wanted  cans  of  soup  put  in 
and  hard  water-crackers  and  some  smoking  tobacco. 
I  told  her  you  smoked  Cowboys'  Delight  and  /  got  it 
for  you,  but  she  said  you  used  to  smoke  Hymans' 
and  she  would  put  it  in.  They  put  in  a  doll,  too,  that 
Miss  Rutherford  said  used  to  be  hers  and  you  and 
she  played  with  it,  and  once  you  were  going  to  cut  its 
head  off  or  something,  but  your  father  stepped  in 
and  saved  it.  There's  some  hair-ribbons,  too,  for 
Thyrza  and  'Melia  Ann  and  a  shawl  for  Mrs.  De- 
laney  and  a  pair  of  skates  for  Franzy — used  to  be 
yours  when  you  were  little.  I  had  to  stop  them 
finally  and  ask  them  if  they  wanted  me  to  hire  a  car. 
But  I  hope  you  won't  feel  you  can't  take  them,  for  it 


366  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

would  hurt  them  awful.  Please  don't  hurt  them  so 
bad  as  that." 

Johnny  did  not  hurt  them.  His  letter  in  return 
was  the  one  which  Peggy  brought  to  Mrs.  Wins- 
low  the  snowy  day  which  was  so  like  the  day  of  a 
year  before. 

"That's  not  all,"  explained  Peggy,  whose  glowing 
eyes  showed  her  suppressed  excitement,  "there's  a 
box!  Johnny  is  sending  Christmas  gifts !" 

The  two  women  bent  over  the  box  with  flushed 
cheeks,  in  an  excitement  that  was  almost  joyous.  It 
was  a  starch-box,  packed  with  great  care  and  at  the 
expenditure  of  a  large  amount  of  tissue  paper.  There 
was  a  white  silk  muffler  marked  "Roger,"  a  Russian 
ikon  ("I  suppose  he  got  it  at  Field's,"  muttered 
Peggy)  for  Michael,  and  three  envelopes  of  ample 
size  addressed  respectively  to  Mrs.  Winslow,  Mrs. 
Winter  and  Miss  Rutherford. 

Peggy  lifted  up  the  muffler;  she  unwrapped  it 
with  delicate,  almost  caressing  touches;  she  looked 
at  the  shop-mark  and  giggled, — a  half-choked, 
tremulous  giggle  which  was  close  to  a  sob.  "I  feel 
like  a  thief,  but  I'm  going  to  keep  it,  just  the  same," 
said  she. 

"Johnny  ought  not  to  spend  his  money  on  that 
Roger  Mack!"  Mrs.  Winslow  reproved.  But  Peggy 
laid  her  finger  on  the  little  gilt  circle  on  the  white 
satin  lining.  "Noyes  Brothers,"  she  announced. 
"Do  you  think  he  would  send  to  Noyes  Brothers  for 
Roger?  I  reckon  not!  It  is  a  relic  of  his  past 
splendor.  Jo'nivan  used  to  be  mighty  gorgeous,  you 
remember.  He  maybe  has  worn  it  once  or  twice,  and 
he  had  Mrs.  Delaney  press  it;  I  reckon  I  can  see 


AN   DIE   FERNE   GELIEBTE  367 

some  shiny  marks  where  the  iron  went — on  the 
wrong  side.  Very  nice  and  sensible  of  Jo'nivan !" 

Mrs.  Winslow  smiled  from  her  own  gift,  which 
was  not  a  Christmas  card,  but  a  calendar.  It  was  an 
ingeniously  contrived  bit  of  work.  The  gray  mat 
was  cut  into  a  frame  and  a  photograph,  evidently 
taken  by  a  kodak,  but  with  considerable  skill  in  pos 
ing  and  lighting,  made  the  oval  above  the  little  pad 
of  the  months  to  come.  Three  smiling,  childish  faces 
met  Emma  Winslow's  half-wistful  eyes,  and  she 
read,  on  the  obverse  of  the  card,  the  words  which 
Johnny  had  written:  "Three  little  children,  whom 
you  have  made  happy,  wish  you  a  Merry  Christ 
mas." 

"It  is  better  than  nothing,    said  she. 

Peggy  was  reading  her  own  card;  she  was  de 
termined  not  to  be  disappointed  if  Johnny  made  the 
small  Bickers  his  interpreters  in  her  own  case. 

"But  I  do  think  it  is  not  exactly  polite ;  he  ought 
to  say  Thank  you,'  himself,"  thought  she.  He  had 
said  it.  Peggy's  was  a  Christmas  card,  very  simple; 
a  single  passage  of  Scripture,  illuminated  in  the 
medieval  manner :  "Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest ; 
on  earth  Peace  and  Good-will  to  men!"  And  when 
she  turned  the  card  over  she  read,  between  smiles 
and  tears :  "Dear  Peggy,  you  were  right  and  I  was 
wrong;  but  I  have  begun  over  again;  won't  you 
wish  me  well?  When  I  feel  I  have  the  right  I  am 
going  to  thank  Mrs.  Winslow  and  you  for  your 
kindness.  But  that  takes  time.  Peggy,  I  stole  the 
doll  from  little  Thyrza;  she  never  could  appreciate 
a  doll  with  associations ;  I  got  her  a  perfect  horror 
she  adores,  and  I'm  keeping  yours  for  a  mascot." 


368  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"That,"  said  Peggy,  "requires  an  answer,  per 
Roger  Mack." 

"He  certainly  is  softening,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow. 
"If  we  only  could  wire  him  to  come  to  Christmas 
dinner." 

"He  would  wire  back  that  he  hadn't  the  proper 
clothes,  most  probably,"  said  Peggy;  but  they  made 
their  jests  out  of  lighter  hearts. 

Yet  for  months  Peggy  did  not  hear  from  Johnny 
— nor  write  to  him. 

Billy  Bates  came  to  Fairport,  and  his  heart 
swelled  within  him,  for  he  was  asked  to  dine  at 
Overlook.  Billy  had  been  less  flattered  by  an  invita 
tion  from  the  rulers  of  the  earth.  He  telephoned  to 
Chicago  for  his  new  dress-suit,  and  he  waited  after 
hours  to  walk  home  with  Miss  Sadie  and  seek  coun 
sel  of  her  as  to  the  weightier  matters  of  etiquette. 
Thanks  to  that  noble  invention,  the  telephone,  he 
put  himself  into  communication  with  Johnny,  ex 
citing,  be  it  said,  a  lively  though  transient  appre 
hension  when  the  superintendent  of  Johnny's  shop 
understood  the  quality  of  the  invisible  visitor  who 
would  not  be  denied. 

In  the  event,  Billy  displayed  a  tempered  mag 
nificence  of  toilet,  a  radiant  neatness,  and  an  anxious 
and  vigilant  politeness.  He  contrived  to  seat  both 
ladies  before  the  butler;  after  dinner,  if  either  of 
them  moved  in  her  chair,  he  was  on  his  feet;  his 
manners  were  admirable.  It  was  apparent  to  Peggy 
that  he  had  not  only  been  tutored  for  this  special 
trial,  but  that  he  was  well-grounded  in  the  daily  use 
of  the  spoon  and  the  fork.  He  said  little  and  he 
watched  Wilton,  the  butler,  narrowly;  it  was  not 


AN   DIE   FERNE   GELIEBTE  369 

that  Billy's  bold  spirit  was  cowed  by  the  function 
ary's  imposing  presence  or  his  irresponsive  atten 
tion  ;  rather  he  was  silently  armoring  any  vulnerable 
points  of  decorum  about  himself  against  a  possible 
sally  of  criticism. 

"He'll  see  I  can  behave  as  pretty  as  any  blamed 
dude  of  them  all !"  Billy  was  declaring  within. 
There  was  another  reason  why  one  ought  not  to 
lose  oneself  in  the  pleasure  of  the  moment,  the  ex 
quisite  sheen  of  the  damask,  the  lights,  the  wine,  the 
flowers  and  the  silver,  all  so  deftly  blending  that 
there  was  but  one  impression  on  the  brain,  a  soft 
harmony  of  splendor.  Billy  felt  that  he  enjoyed  it 
and  that  with  familiarity  he  should  enjoy  it  more. 
"I  always  did  like  things  clean !"  was  the  way  Billy 
expressed  it  to  himself.  But  because  of  the  butler, 
whose  respect  he  coveted  almost  angrily,  and  of  the 
other  reason,  Mr.  Bates  held  his  esthetic  glow  well 
in  hand.  The  other  reason  was  his  dread  lest  the  ex 
pansion  of  the  hour  would  be  used  to  find  out  some 
thing  about  Johnny's  whereabouts. 

Such  inquisition,  however,  did  not  comport  with 
his  hostess'  ideas  of  hospitality,  and  as  little  with 
Peggy's.  Johnny,  who  was  in  all  their  thoughts,  was 
not  once  mentioned  during  the  meal.  Afterward  it 
was  Billy,  himself,  who  spoke  the  name,  in  a  casual, 
accidental  way.  Then  said  Mrs.  Winslow :  "We 
don't  want  to  ask  you  any  questions,  Mr.  Bates,  but 
you  know  we  shall  be  glad  to  hear  anything  Johnny 
would  be  willing  to  have  you  tell." 

After  that,  conversation  flowed  easily,  and  while 
Billy  never  forgot  his  guard  over  names  and  lo 
calities,  he  told  innumerable  anecdotes  of  Johnny 


THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 


and  of  the  small  Blokers,  to  an  audience  as  eager  to 
hear  as  he  could  be  to  tell. 

"Amelia  Ann's  a  handful/'  he  declared  frankly, 
being  safe  out  of  the  bonds  of  Johnny's  remorseful 
compassion ;  "she  will  either  go  on  the  stage  or  as 
tonish  the  police  court.  Sometimes  she  takes  to  pur 
suing  Thyrza  with  the  carving-knife  or  any  old 
thing,  and,  one  time,  she  threw  a  can  of  hot  lye 
at  Mrs.  Delaney.  It  was  lucky  Mrs.  Delaney  had 
the  boiler  cover  in  her  hands — she  was  lifting  it  off 
the  boiler — and  she  held  it  up  for  a  shield,  so  it  got 
the  hot  lye  instead  of  her.  That  was  the  day  Amelia 
Ann  did  get  paddled,  good  and  plenty.  The  wooden 
stick  you  stir  clothes  with,  you  know,  was  right  at 
her  hand,  and  Mrs.  Delaney  simply  walloped  Amelia 
Ann.  I  don't  know  that  I  blame  her." 

"Did  it  do  Amelia  Ann  good?"  Peggy  asked. 

"It  ought  to,"  said  Billy,  "but  as  Ivan — Mr. 
Winslow — says,  Amelia  Ann  is  not  as  all  other 
women  are,  like  the  lady  in  the  poem.  She  took  the 
beating  to  heart  so  much  that  she  borrowed  a  quarter 
Thyrza  had  accumulated  in  pennies,  and  went  out 
and  got  some  carbolic  acid,  which  she  tipped  to  her 
mouth  after  she  got  Mrs.  Delaney  in  front  of  her 
and  swallowed  it — " 

"My  word!"  cried  Peggy;  "did  it  kill  her?" 

"Why,  no,  ma'am.  Mrs.  Delaney  knocked  the  bot 
tle  out  of  her  hand,  giving  her  a  good  box  on  the 
ear,  and  Johnny,  who  happened  in,  by  good  luck,  at 
that  time,  tickled  her  throat  with  a  feather  and  gave 
her  white  of  egg  and  flour  and  mustard  water  until 
she  nearly  had  convulsions.  She  was  the  limpest 
little  rat  you  ever  saw ;  but  Johnny's  the  only  crea- 


AN   DIE   FERNE   GELIEBTE  371 

ture  she  has  any  regard  for,  so  she  stood  it.  He 
was  perfectly  gentle  and  quiet.  He  always  is,  you 
know ;  but  he  didn't  sleep  all  night,  he  was  so  wor 
ried.  The  next  night,  if  he  didn't  take  the  kid  and 
Mrs.  Delaney  to  the  theater  and  let  them  see  By 
Mistake  of  Law,  a  fool  play  where  the  villain  takes 
poison  and  half  an  hour  to  die  in,  and  dies  all  over 
the  stage.  'That's  how  you'd  a  been!'  says  Mrs. 
Delaney,  who  likes  to  rub  it  in  hard.  I  suppose  she 
gets  that  way  washing.  Amelia  Ann  only  stuck 
out  her  tongue.  Mr.  Winslow  didn't  say  a  word. 
But  the  kid  sidled  up  to  him,  going  home,  and  said : 
'You  won't  let  me  git  killed,  Johnny,  will  you?'  He 
seems  to  know  how  to  manage  her.  She  used  to  wear 
the  craziest  things  and  look  like  a  rag-bag.  Mrs.  De 
laney  couldn't  get  her  to  keep  her  clothes  decent. 
But  one  day  Ivan  comes  in  with  a  dress  that  Mrs. 
Winter  had  helped  him  buy  at  Field's  and  she  put 
it  on  and  he  said :  'What  a  pretty  little  girl !  Isn't 
it  a  pity  she'll  go  back  to  those  ragged  clothes !'  'I 
won't/  says  she;  Tin  going  to  wear  pretty  clothes 
all  the  time!'  What's  more,  she  has.  She  makes 
Thyrza  mend  them.  But  she  sings  and  dances  for 
Thyrza.  She  can  dance  to  beat  the  band,  and  twist 
herself  into  more  shapes  than  a  rubber  jumping- 
jack,  and  mimic !  she  can  imitate  anything  from  the 
Mooney's  dog  fighting  the  Sigelfritz's  cat  to  Mrs. 
Delaney's  brogue,  scolding.  She's  better  than  the 
'Barnyard'  on  the  graphophone." 

"Is  she  fond  of  study?"  said  Mrs.  Winslow. 

"Hates  it,"  said  Billy;  "hasn't  got  only  to  words 
of  one  syllable,  and  Thyrza  can  beat  her  figuring; 
but  she  can  climb  better  than  any  boy  on  the  street, 


372  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

and  she  can  ride  the  goat  that  the  Dago  fruit-man 
keeps  to  draw  his  cart,  and  she  can  smoke  a  pipe 
and  not  be  sick.  As  Ivan  says,  her  stunts  aren't  ex 
actly  lady-like,  but  they're  striking." 

"Poor  child!"  said  Mrs.  Winslow. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  madam;  you  see,  Ivan  has 
taken  her  in  hand,  and  he  seems  to  have  a  way  with 
people.  She's  improved.  She  chews  gum  instead  of 
tobacco  now,  and  she  only  makes  faces  at  Mrs.  De- 
laney  instead  of  shying  things  at  her.  Mr.  Winslow 
thinks  she  will  come  out  all  right." 

"She  needs  to  go  out  in  the  country,"  said  Peggy; 
"the  city  is  too  stimulating  for  her." 

"That's  right.  I  mean  you're  quite  correct,  Miss 
Rutherford.  But  they  have  gone  out  in  the  coun 
try," — he  grinned  over  some  recollection — "Amelia 
Ann  tried  to  ride  a  cow ;  I  don't  think  the  cow  let 
her !  So  Amelia  Ann  tried  the  calf  because,  she  said, 
she  wouldn't  have  so  far  to  fall,  and  she'd  learn  on 
the  calf.  She  hadn't  learned  at  last  accounts ;  but  she 
was  persevering." 

In  such  anecdotes,  the  evening  passed  before  Billy 
realized;  he  forgot  the  discomforts  of  his  state  col 
lar  and  his  new  shoes;  he  forgot  even  Wilton's 
hauteur,  and  permitted  him  to  slip  on  his  coat  at 
parting  quite  as  if  he  were  a  waiter  at  his  favorite 
restaurant.  But  he  never  forgot  to  keep  Johnny's 
secrets.  He  spoke  with  feeling  and  sense  about  his 
friend.  Although  his  argument  was  against  them, 
his  hearers  felt  some  touch  of  conviction  from  it. 
Mrs.  Winslow  had  said:  "These  privations  which 
he  must  feel,  this  actual  suffering  he  has,  isn't  it  all 
unnecessary?" 


AN   DIE   FERNE   GELIEBTE 


373 


"No,  ma'am,"  Billy  had  answered,  "I  don't  think 
it  is.  It's  hard  and  God  knows  I  have  tried  hard 
enough  to  send  him  back  to  his  folks  where  he  be 
longs,  for  he  seemed  to  me  like  a  lobster  with  his 
shell  off,  and  the  new  one  not  grown,  and  everything 
could  bite  him.  But  these  last  months  I  have  seen 
something.  He's  learning.  He's  learning  fast.  He's 
getting  to  be  a  large-minded,  tolerant  man.  Yet  he 
hasn't  lost  his  gift  of  being  sorry  for  people  in  trou 
ble  ;  he  has  only  found  out  that  the  loudest  squealers 
aren't  always  the  ones  the  worst  hurt.  'Twas  a  true 
word  he  once  said:  'You  have  to  be  just  before 
you're  generous,  or  you  won't  be  able  to  be  generous 
long !'  He  has  naturally  got  an  open  hand,  and  he's 
never  had  to  tie  it  up  until  lately.  He  has  learned 
a  plenty  of  other  things — to  manage  men,  for  one. 
He's  maybe  a  bad  politician,  but  anyhow  he's  a  born 
leader." 

"But  isn't  a  good  politician  a  born  leader?" 
queried  Peggy,  whose  eyes  shone  bright  with  amuse 
ment. 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  Billy  scornfully,  "he's  a  born 
dickerer.  He  leads  if  he  can,  but  he  follows  and 
dickers  when  he  can't.  When  I  was  a  kid,  here  in 
Fairport,  and  used  to  trundle  my  infant  piety  about 
among  the  Sunday-schools,  as  long  as  the  Christ 
mas-tree  season  lasted,  there  was  a  fat  chump  named 
Easterly;  his  mother  or  his  aunty  promised  him  a 
Rugby  football,  which  he  was  keen  for,  if  he'd  get 
to  the  head  of  his  class.  Do  you  know  that  duffer 
paid  us  a  cent  apiece  for  missing;  he  learned  just  one 
question  and  for  nine  cents  he  got  that  ball.  Well, 
he  was  a  politician." 


374  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

"Yet  you  are  a  good  politician,  Mr.  Bates, — at 
least,  so  reputed." 

"Oh,  I'm  a  good  dickerer," — Billy  waved  the  im 
plied  question  aside.  "I  follow  when  I  must.  If  I 
didn't  I  couldn't  keep  my  job.  There  isn't  a  labor- 
leader  going  who  doesn't  have  to  swap  some  of  his 
opinions  for  his  place.  He'd  lose  it  if  he  didn't.  Not 
only  that,  he'd  have  a  successor  who  wouldn't  re 
strain  the  men  at  all,  while  he  can,  a  little.  And  if  he 
waits  and  dickers,  his  time  will  come." 

Then  Billy  added  in  a  different  tone :  "But  there 
is  a  limit.  Mr.  Winslow  has  taught  me  that,  and 
no  honorable  man  can  either  conceal  or  betray  his 
convictions  past  that  limit.  Some  things  are  ex 
pedient,  and  some  things  are  right;  you  can  give 
in  on  questions  of  prudence,  but  you  can't  on  ques 
tions  of  honor.  I  can  see  why.  I  couldn't  always; 
but  he  has  taught  me  that  among  many  things.  I 
owe  him  a  lot ;  a  terrible  lot  it  would  be,  if  I  didn't 
care  so  much  for  him." 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow,  "he  owes  as  much 
to  you.  We  may  be  grateful  he  has  so  good  a  friend. 
I  know  he  is." 

Billy  left  Overlook  that  night  with  a  sense  of 
knowing  Johnny  better  than  before,  and,  curiously 
enough,  he  left  the  reflection  of  his  own  feeling  be 
hind  him.  Perhaps  he  left  some  tinge  of  resignation 
also.  Peggy  and  Mrs.  Winslow  settled  themselves 
into  helping  Johnny  indirectly.  Peggy  wrote  to  him. 
It  was  the  same  kind  of  letter  which  she  might  have 
written  to  him  had  they  never  quarreled.  He  was 
her  dear  Jo'nivan  on  the  first  line;  she  forgave  his 
being  too  good  for  this  selfish  world  on  the  second, 


AN   DIE   FERNE   GELIEBTE  375 

and  told  about  Fairport  and  Overlook  for  three 
pages. 

Johnny  got  the  letter  in  the  evening  when  he  came 
home  from  his  work.  He  didn't  open  it  in  the  fam 
ily  circle  where  Amelia  Ann,  having  just  slapped 
Franzy,  was  doing  penance  (and  making  faces)  in 
a  corner,  and  Mrs.  Delaney  was  frying  bacon,  while 
Franzy  sniffled  and  Thyrza  comforted  him,  between 
the  placing  of  dishes  on  the  table. 

Johnny  carried  his  letter  into  his  own  bare  room. 
How  many  times  he  kissed  the  dear,  familiar  hand 
writing,  how  he  opened  the  letter  on  his  knees  as  if 
before  his  queen,  any  lover  can  fancy.  But  he  sighed 
as  he  read.  This  Peggy,  who  wrote,  was  not  quite 
the  gentle  creature  of  Roger  Mack's  picture,  sending 
him  the  doll  which  was  the  sign  of  their  old  child 
ish  amity.  In  a  moment,  however,  he  smiled  just  as 
in  his  childish  days  he  would  smile  when  he  was 
hurt,  for  some  whim  of  consolation. 

"Well,  anyhow,  she  has  spoken  to  me!"  he  said, 
"or  doesn't  she  call  this  speaking?  Oh,  Peggy, 
Peggy >  how  sweet  you  are !" 

Billy's  visit  was  in  the  winter.  On  Valentine's 
Day  a  box  of  violets  came  to  Peggy  with  a  sealed 
envelope  beneath  their  fragrant  masses.  The  single 
sheet  of  paper,  within,  contained  only  Emerson's 
lyric,  which  once  Peggy  had  sung  for  Johnny : 

"Thine  eyes  still  shined  for  me,  though  far 

I  lonely  roved  the  land  or  sea, 
As  I  behold  yon  evening  star, 
Which  yet  beholds  not  me." 

There  was   no   word,    no   signature;   none  was 


376  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

needed.  Peggy  told  Mrs.  Winslow  that  she  had  had 
some  poetry  with  the  flowers,  and  the  wise  woman 
did  not  even  smile. 

The  winter  softened  into  a  muddy  slush  of  spring ; 
the  spring  opened  like  its  own  flowers  into  aureolin 
sunshine  and  emerald  hillsides  and  the  homely 
sweetness  of  newly  turned  earth;  almost  unawares, 
the  summer  came  with  the  breathless  western  heat. 
But  Peggy,  herself,  had  not  written  to  Johnny. 
Perhaps  she  thought  that  Roger  Mack  did  enough 
writing  for  two.  Roger  had  taken  to  the  typewriter 
of  late.  It  was  only  in  the  beginning  that  Sadie 
Martin  copied  the  letters.  Peggy  had  known  Sadie 
since  she  was  a  little  girl.  In  the  simple  democracy 
of  Fairport,  they  often  met.  Sadie  knew  more  than 
Peggy  about  Johnny's  life  and  conduct,  for  many 
months,  because  Billy  Bates  used  to  talk  to  her.  She 
was  more  than  willing,  when  Peggy  proposed  her 
part  in  the  scheme. 

"I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  for  Mrs. 
Winslow,"  Sadie  said  instantly,  "she  has  been  so 
good  to  mother."  And  Peggy  was  rather  glad  to 
have  the  onus  of  obligation  thus  shifted.  The 
Southern  girl  was  far  too  wise  to  suggest  any  busi 
ness  basis ;  she  accepted  the  proffered  aid  gratefully, 
and  took  Mrs.  Martin  to  drive  and  asked  her  fellow 
conspirator  to  luncheon  or  to  the  play. 

But  a  disinclination  to  have  the  kind  Sadie  read 
Roger's  letters  to  Johnny — naturally  she  had  never 
read  Johnny's  letters  to  Roger — had  increased;  the 
solution  of  the  matter  was  simple ;  Roger  learned  to 
use  a  typewriter.  That  he  had  not  used  it  in  the  be 
ginning  was  due  to  Peggy's  supersensitiveness ;  she 


AN   DIE   FERNE   GELIEBTE  377 

was  always  trying  to  imagine  possible  suspicions, 
and  she  fancied  Johnny  might  suspect  a  typewriter ; 
a  written  letter  in  a  strange  hand  was  much  more 
plausible. 

But  Johnny's  possible  suspicions  having  been 
lulled  by  seeing  the  strange  hand,  there  was  not  the 
slightest  objection  whatever  to  the  typewriter,  and 
Peggy  kept  advance  sheets  ready  signed,  always  by 
her. 

Was  it  her  fancy,  Peggy  asked  herself,  that  either 
Johnny  was  growing  attached  to  this  mythical 
Roger,  this  hard-working,  poor  wight,  with  his  pa 
thetic  story  of  a  neglected  childhood,  or — Peggy 
blushed  and  did  not  pursue  the  question.  The  change 
was  intangible ;  but  she  felt  it  with  every  letter.  In 
some  ways  he  was  more  reserved ;  gone  entirely 
were  those  austere  moral  reflections  which  frankly 
admitted  some  of  the  more  elemental  of  man's  temp 
tations,  even  while  they  warned  against  them — 
Johnny's  present  letters  could  have  been  read  to  a 
girls'  club — but  gone  also  was  the  attitude  of  a 
teacher.  Johnny  never  had  a  particle  of  condescen 
sion  in  him;  he  never  put  on  pedagogic  airs  with 
Roger,  but  he  had  talked  of  the  simpler  matters  of 
the  intellect.  If  he  spoke  of  an  author,  he  was  likely 
to  fling  in  a  bit  of  biography,  and  he  was  particular 
to  keep  his  terms  of  logic  very  simple.  Now  he 
wrote  as  one  educated  person  might  write  to  an 
other.  But  more  important  than  all :  hitherto  John 
ny  had  been  reserved,  in  the  midst  of  his  sympathy. 
He  never  had  spoken  of  himself,  his  own  fortunes, 
his  own  daily  round,  or  his  own  feelings.  Now,  he 
was  equally  silent  about  the  material  concerns  of  his 


A1\C 


378  THE   MAN\OF   THE   HOUR 

life,  but  half-shyly  he  was  unpacking  his  heart  of 
its  faiths  and  its  problems. 

He  wrote  every  Sunday,  that  being  his  one  leisure 
day.  Roger  wrote  Fridays,  in  order  to  give  Johnny 
a  chance  to  answer  his  letters  at  once.  The  interest 
of  the  situation  increased  all  the  while.  By  degrees, 
Peggy  dropped  any  talk  about  Roger  Mack's  per 
sonal  experiences;  a  certain  shamefaced  doubt  in 
her  audience's  credulity  held  her  fingers;  but  she 
wrote  out  Roger  Mack's  heart,  which  was  much  the 
sort  of  heart  Margaret  Rutherford  had  had  in  a 
poor  boy's  place. 

She  also  contrived  to  get  in  the  daily  life  of  Over 
look  and  Fairport.  And  with  a  skill  she  did  not 
realize,  she  sketched  most  delicately,  in  half-tones 
which  could  not  offend,  the  character  of  the  only 
woman  to  whom  Johnny  had  been  unkind.  Grace 
was  given  her  to  do  it  with  so  light  a  hand,  in  so 
few  if  strong  lines,  that  Johnny  himself  never  sus 
pected  her  purpose.  Mrs.  Winslow  appeared  in  the 
letters,  because  there  was  no  telling  the  incidents 
without  her.  As  for  her  character,  it  revealed  it 
self.  Because  his  attention  was  not  asked,  Johnny 
gave  it  without  reserve.  He  did  not  come  to  the 
reading  critical,  but  interested,  out  of  his  armor  and 
off  his  guard.  "Could  you  have  wronged  her,  dear?" 
he  asked  once,  to  the  image  of  his  mother  that  he 
summoned  so  often  to  his  thoughts ;  "we  made  mis 
takes,  you  and  I.  And — let  us  be  just — she  had  a 
right  to  marry  my  father  if  she  loved  him.  She  did, 
mamasa*  She  made  him  happy;  I  fear  we  didn't." 

*Darling. 


AN   DIE   FERNE   GELIEBTE  379 

These  changes  in  the  correspondence  Peggy  came 
eventually  to  date  back  to  a  certain  day  of  July. 
It  was  the  day  she  found  a  note  from  Luke  Darrell 
in  her  mail,  after  reading  which  she  telephoned 
Michael  not  to  unharness  her  horse,  but  bring  it 
around  again,  although  she  had  just  returned  from 
town.  Within  half  an  hour  she  was  in  Luke  Dar- 
rell's  private  office,  and  Luke  was  hastily  shoving 
his  white  shirt-sleeves  into  his  clerical-looking  black 
alpaca  coat. 

"About  Roger  Mack?"  said  Peggy.  Luke  had 
been  her  faithful  and  willing  confederate  on  almost 
the  same  terms  as  Sadie.  He  did  not  know  whether 
Peggy  or  Mrs.  Winslow  was  Roger  Mack.  He  for 
warded  the  letters  to  Overlook  marked  "For  Mrs. 
Winslow  or  Miss  Rutherford,"  and  kept  any  sur 
mises  to  himself.  Now,  he  rubbed  his  clean-shaven 
jaws  and  looked  solemn  as  usual,  as  he  remarked : 

"I'm  afraid,  Miss  Rutherford,  they  are  on  to 
Roger  Mack." 

"Why?"  said  Peggy. 

"Well,  I  was  out  this  morning,  and  everybody 
else ;  we  had  two  funerals,  and  only  the  new  washer 
and  Henderson  were  in.  Henderson  stepped  out  for 
his  dinner,  come  to  think,  so  he  ittam't  in.  A  young 
fellow  strolled  in  and  asked  for  Roger  Mack.  The 
washer  said  he  didn't  work  here.  Then  the  young 
fellow  asked  had  he  left?  The  washer  had  never 
heard  of  him;  but  he  said  he  was  new,  himself. 
Then  the  young  fellow  left." 

Peggy  held  herself  impassive  by  an  effort :  "That 
was  this  morning?" 

Luke  said  it  was. 


380  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

"And  what  was  the  young  man  like?  A  working- 
man?" 

"That  man  who  saw  him — August  his  name  is; 
he's  got  another  but  it's  too  long  to  be  handled  on 
work-days — he  said  he  was  a  gentleman.  I  asked 
him  how  he  looked  and  he  said :  'Oh,  like  any  gen 
tleman.'  I  asked  him  how  he  talked :  'Oh,  just  like 
any  gentleman.'  I  couldn't  git  a  mortal  thing  out 
of  the  dumb  tyke,  he  couldn't  tell  so  much  as  the 
color  of  his  eyes  or  whether  his  hair  was  curly.  It 
was  just  as  I  wanted  it.  Were  they  brown?  Yes, 
maybe.  Or  perhaps  they  were  blue  ?  He  wasn't  sure ; 
they  might  be  blue.  He's  as  dumb  as  they  make  'em, 
even  Dutchmen — and  they're  next  to  a  wooden  In 
jun,  if  they  want  to  be.  But  I  thought  I'd  ought  to 
tell  you." 

"Do  you  think  the  gentleman  could  have  been 
Mr.  Winslow?" 

"I  haven't  got  enough  of  a  tip  to  give  odds,  it's 
even  money  who  it  was.  That  stick  couldn't  be  sure 
whether  he  was  tall.  Might  be  little  Billy  Bates — 
only  he'd  be  likely  to  stay  and  chin  with  me." 

The  unknown  never  returned  to  unravel  their  puz 
zle.  But  Roger  Mack  wrote  that  he  had  been  in  the 
interior  of  the  state  buying  horses  and  was  back  that 
day.  Johnny  did  not  speak  of  coming  to  Fairport 
or  Darrell's ;  but  it  was  after  that  unexplained  visit 
that  his  letters  began  to  strike  a  more  personal  note, 
at  first  faintly,  one  may  say  tentatively,  then  with  a 
firmer  tone. 

And  this  is  why  Peggy  did  not  write  to  Johnny 
nor  Johnny  to  Peggy. 


CHAPTER    IX 

HAST  THOU  FOUND  ME,  O  MINE  ENEMY 

The  office-boy  was  not  in  the  habit  of  eavesdrop 
ping;  he  was  a  decent  little  creature,  as  office-boys 
go,  and  his  mother  considered  him  the  best  boy  in 
Fairport.  Nevertheless,  on  a  certain  May  morning, 
a  year  later,  Axtel,  the  boy  in  question,  made  un 
necessary  excursions  to  the  large  office  out  of  which 
opened  Mr.  Hopkins'  private  room;  and  when 
ever  the  typewriter  was  looking  the  other  way  he 
glued  a  very  sharp  ear  to  the  keyhole  under  pretext 
pf  picking  up  something.  The  typewriter,  the  slen 
der  young  men  at  the  tall  desks,  the  foremen  and 
other  workmen  who  came  in  with  messages  or  ques 
tions,  all  wore  the  same  air  of  suppressed  emotion. 
And  Axtel  knew,  as  well  as  the  others,  that  the  ex 
citement  in  the  office  was  only  a  reflex  of  the  excite 
ment  lurking  in  the  two  thousand  eyes  bent  appar 
ently  on  their  work  in  the  great  shops  outside ;  from 
the  "daubers"  who  dipped  machines  in  their  first 
coat  of  paint  to  the  foreman  and  superintendent,  an 
electric  agitation  was  spreading  in  tingling  waves. 
Axtel  was  not  the  only  one  with  ears  and  eyes  open. 

Within  the  office  three  men  sat  smoking.  The 
tall,  portly,  white-haired  man,  whose  noble  dome  of 
brow  was  nearly  bald,  was  William  Hopkins,  presi- 

38: 


382  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

dent  of  the  Old  Colony ;  the  shorter  but  more  rugged 
figure,  topped  by  a  Roman  head  with  a  thatch  of 
iron-gray  hair  above  beetling  brows  and  keen  steel- 
gray  eyes,  belonged  to  Jabez  Rivers,  head  of  the 
Edgewater  Steel  Works,  across  the  river ;  the  third 
man's  features  showed  (as  the  other  men's  faces  did 
not  show)  the  plain  marks  of  care;  he  was  vice- 
president  and  largest  owner  in  a  great  Chicago  cor 
poration,  manufacturing  farm  machinery.  "Yes, 
I  guess  we  are  in  for  it,  Dunham/'  Hopkins  re 
peated. 

A  grunt  was  Mr.  Jabez  Rivers'  only  comment. 
Rivers'  feelings  never  were  much  more  than  semi- 
articulate. 

Dunham,  the  Chicago  man,  glanced  from  the 
plow  manufacturer  to  the  steel  man. 

"Then  I  understand  you'll  both  stand  with  me?" 
he  asked. 

Hopkins  laughed.  "I  guess  we  have  to ;  we  kept 
our  foundry  about  running  on  your  castings,  all 
through  the  dull  seasons  ninety-six  and  seven,  and 
you've  got  the  contract  from  us  for  this  year ;  what 
else  is  there  for  us  to  do  but  keep  it,  whether  the 
molders  like  it  or  not?" 

"Well,  that's  the  way  it  strikes  us,  of  course,"  the 
Chicago  man  said,  nodding  his  head  and  waving  his 
cigar;  "but — how  about  you,  Mr.  Rivers?" 

"The  Edgewater  has  a  contract  to  supply  the  Old 
Colony  with  steel,"  grunted  Rivers;  "none  of  our 
business  how  they  use  it." 

"Well,  I  thought  you'd  feel  that  way,"— the  Chi 
cago  man  spoke  more  rapidly  in  his  relief — "but  of 
course  I  wanted  to  make  sure.  It's  such  an  abom- 


HAST  THOU   FOUND   ME,  O   MINE   ENEMY    383 

inable  trickery — the  whole  business — that  you  don't 
know  what  to  expect  next.  We,  ourselves,  haven't 
had  a  bit  of  trouble  with  our  men,  and  have  always 
tried  to  treat  them  fairly.  Why,  last  winter  old 
Wethers  was  chuckling  to  me  about  how  he'd  cut 
his  wages  forty  per  cent.  Just  took  it  right  out  of 
the  men's  skins  and  put  it  into  his  own  pocket.  We 
hardly  cut  wages  at  all.  And  the  trouble  began  at 
Wethers'.  His  men  struck  for  a  rise  and  a  recog 
nition  of  their  union ;  then  the  Colworthy  men  struck 
and  the  thing  spread  till  we  have  a  peck  of  trouble ; 
it's  'way  beyond  the  original  cause.  Been  going  on 
a  month,  and  now  a  vile  anarchist  they  used  to  have 
in  Chicago,  who  used  to  be  a  molder,  but  now  is  a 
light  among  the  machinists  and  can  make  more 
trouble  than  a  candle  in  a  powder  factory,  has  taken 
a  hand,  and  we're  roped  in.  No  reason  on  earth 
except  that  we  sell  to  Colworthy  and  Wethers.  I 
am  about  certain  that  this  Wally  Tyler,  who  used 
to  be  the  most  corrupt  and  mischievous  labor-poli 
tician  in  Chicago — " 

"That's  a  big  contract,"  interjected  Rivers. 

"He'll  fill  it,  never  mind.  He's  the  kind  that 
holds  us  up  with  his  right  hand  and  steals  from  his 
union  with  his  left.  He's  killed  one  man  himself, 
with  his  own  good  right  arm,  they  say,  and  two  or 
three  by  proxy,  and  I'd  hate  to  guess  how  many  men 
his  gang  has  done  up.  Regular  hospital  feeder.  It 
was  a  mercy  when  he  cleared  out;  now  he's  back. 
He  must  needs  take  a  hand  for  the  machinists,  and 
demand  that  we  stop  selling  to  Wethers  or  Col 
worthy.  We  refused.  We're  not  yet  asking  the  la 
bor  unions  to  run  our  business  for  us.  It's  bad 


384  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

enough  to  have  them  virtually  hiring  and  discharg 
ing  our  men.  We  were  perfectly  civil  about  it,  but 
we  refused.  Next  day  our  machinists  walked  out. 
We  don't  mind  a  partial  shut-down,  though  orders 
are  coming  in  with  a  rush  now.  But  we  can  man 
age.  We've  got  considerable  stuff  on  hand,  and 
we're  delivering  it ;  and  we've  got  a  few  fellows  that 
will  stick  to  us.  If  we  can  only  get  our  stuff  from 
you  on  time." 

"You  can,"  said  Hopkins. 

Rivers  grunted  something,  presumably  assent. 

"But  they've  served  notice  on  you,  too  ?" 

"Served  notice  and  got  their  answer,  and  Mr. 
Walter  Tyler  is  in  town,  raising  all  the  hell  he  can. 
How  much," — Hopkins  blinked  at  the  clock  on  the 
wall — "we  shall  know  in  about  ten  minutes." 

"Say  they'll  walk  out  then?" 

Hopkins  nodded. 

"And  how  about  Edgewater,  Mr.  Rivers  ?" 

It  was  an  open  secret  in  business  circles  that  the 
Edgewater  had  made  a  deal  with  the  Old  Colony, 
being  virtually  their  silent  partner. 

"Well,  we've  no  machinists  to  hurt,  and  what  we 
have  don't  belong  to  the  union,"  said  Rivers;  "but 
Tyler  got  at  our  strand  boys,  and  the  bumptious 
little  beggars,  who  are  always  making  trouble,  went 
out  last  night — and  came  back  this  morning." 

"Indeed  ?     How  was  that  ?" 

"We've  a  brand  new  superintendent  at  the  Open 
Hearth — young  feller  who  went  through  the  mill. 
Used  to  be  in  Chicago.  I  have  had  my  eye  on  him 
for  two  years.  Didn't  say  much  for  fear  of  giving 
him  the  big  head  before  he  was  old  enough  to  stand 


HAST   THOU   FOUND    ME,   O    MINE   ENEMY    385 

the  disease,  but  I  watched  him.  He's  been  a  strand 
boy,  a  rougher,  a  finisher,  a  roller,  a  heater;  he 
knows  the  whole  business;  what's  more,  he  knows 
the  men.  Those  little  cubs  knew  they  could  shut 
down  the  whole  shop,  and  they  were  mighty  cocky. 
He  said  he  thought  he  could  call  them  down.  He 
did.  I  don't  know  how,  but  I've  a  notion  he  got  at 
some  of  the  older  and  more  responsible  men  and 
they  did  the  trick  for  him.  I  guess  they  promised 
the  boys  a  good  hiding.  Lord,  they  need  it !  Cubs! 
Still,  some  of  them  are  decent,  Gleason  says;  he's 
teaching  them  to  box." 

"Has  he  a  head  on  him?" 

"He  has.   Good  head,— but  he's  modest." 

"Say,  lend  him  to  me  for  a  while,"  laughed  Hop 
kins.  "I'm  always  on  the  lookout  for  young  men 
that  can  work  and  haven't  got  the  swelled  head." 

"Want  him  myself,"  rejoined  Rivers. 

"I  guess  we  could  use  him  somewhere,  too,"  the 
Chicago  man  jested;  his  spirits  were  rising. 

Rivers  had  lumbered  to  his  feet  and  was  looking 
at  the  clock.  "Five  minutes  of"  said  he. 

The  three  men  left  the  office  together  so  precip 
itately  that  Axtel  barely  had  time  to  jump  to  the 
screw  of  the  hot-water  pipes  for  a  lawful  reason  for 
his  presence.  They  walked  through  the  office  and 
across  the  narrow  street  to  the  largest  shop.  The 
huge  building,  with  its  iron  beams  and  cement  floor, 
was  penetrated  by  the  staccato  hum  of  machinery 
and  luridly  aglow  with  myriad  flaming  blasts,  in 
front  of  which  stood  the  dark  figures  of  the  artisans. 

The  three  halted  in  the  great  doorway.  Usually 
their  presence  would  not  have  attracted  a  turn  of  the 


386  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

head.  Absorbed  in  their  work,  the  men  would  have 
hardly  known  that  they  were  there.  To-day  more 
than  one  man  cast  a  backward  glance.  The  man 
next  Hopkins  smothered  an  oath,  as  he  threw  some 
thing  into  the  scrap  at  his  feet. 

"Spoiled  that  bolt,"  argued  Hopkins;  %'all  of  'em 
rattled  this  morning.  Who's  that  young  feller  just 
come  in?" 

"He's  all  right ;  he's  my  young  man.  I  told  him 
to  come  here."  Jabez  Rivers,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  was  grimly  unmoved.  But  the  Chicago 
man's  eyeballs  glittered  in  the  flare. 

Mr.  Hopkins  gave  the  young  man  a  long  look. 
A  handsome  young  man  he  was,  over  six  feet  tall, 
well-knit  and  erect,  with  a  clean-shaven,  young,  oval 
face,  and  his  head  carried  well  in  the  air  with  the 
chin  down.  The  head  was  covered  with  wavy 
black  hair,  which  would  have  curled  were  it  not 
cropped  so  short.  He  wore  a  negligee  shirt  and 
yellow  belt,  and  there  were  straps  on  his  trousers, 
as  if  he  had  just  dismounted  from  a  wheel.  The 
president  of  the  Old  Colony  Plow  Works  whistled 
softly. 

"T-there's  Tyler  h-himself !"  stammered  the  Chi 
cago  man,  whose  hands  were  clinching  and  open 
ing,  he  was  so  nervous. 

Tyler  swung  through  a  side  door  almost  opposite 
the  group,  with  his  accustomed  jovial  swagger.  His 
toilet  had  been  made  for  the  occasion,  which  he 
anticipated  would  be  one  for  display  rather  than 
action.  Therefore  he  had  a  red  silk  handkerchief 
peeping  out  of  his  coat  pocket,  a  new  tweed  suit  and 
tan-colored  shoes  to  be  seen  across  the  shop.  In- 


HAST   THOU   FOUND    ME,   O    MINE   ENEMY    387 

stantly  he  took  in  the  trio  in  the  big  doorway.  He 
knew  Rivers,  whom  he  respected  as  a  good  fighter, 
and  whose  gruffness  put  him  rather  at  his  ease, 
being  quite  comprehensible  to  him;  he  knew  Hop 
kins,  of  whose  quality  he  was  yet  in  doubt;  and  he 
knew  the  Chicago  man.  Their  presence  was  an 
unexpected  tidbit  for  his  vanity.  He  felt  sure  of 
at  least  three-fourths  of  the  busy  hammers  dropping 
at  his  whistle.  He  hoped  for  more.  All  the  men 
leaving  mightn't  remain  out ;  indeed,  he  had  passed 
the  tip  that  there  would  not  be  a  long  strike,  and  if 
the  non-union  men  would  but  walk  out  they  could 
go  back  in  a  few  days,  should  the  strike  not  suc 
ceed,  as  he  felt  it  must.  He  calculated  that  Hop 
kins,  who  had  never  had  serious  trouble  with  his 
men,  and  who  had  rush  orders  of  great  magnitude, 
would  be  frightened  by  the  stampede.  He  counted 
on  the  obscure  yet  enormous  force  of  contagion  and 
the  mightier  force  of  clan  prejudice.  On  the  whole, 
he  was  fairly  sure  of  his  stroke.  His  confidence 
curled  on  his  mouth  as  he  turned — and  saw  the 
young  superintendent  from  the  Edgewater. 

The  latter  looked  at  him  with  grave,  almost  sol 
emn  eyes.  Nothing  passed  between  the  two  but 
the  single  glance.  Then  Tyler  lifted  his  whistle  to 
his  sneering  mouth  and  blew  a  blast  that  cut,  knife- 
like,  through  the  vast  buzz  of  toil.  As  if  in  answer 
to  a  magician's  call,  every  arm  fell.  The  very 
belts  above  slackened  their  mighty  revolutions.  The 
noise  of  machinery  dulled.  One  would  say  that  the 
heart  of  the  great  engine  had  been  struck  and  was 
staggering  slowly  into  dumbness.  Like  statues,  the 
men  stood,  holding  their  breath,  their  eyes  glued  on 


388  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

Tyler.  Before  Tyler  could  send  a  second  blast  the 
new  superintendent  (to  whom  Rivers  had  nodded, 
after  a  swift  colloquy  with  Hopkins)  strode  in  front 
of  him  and  laid  a  hand  of  iron  on  his  arm. 

"Didn't  you  see  that  sign?"  he  demanded,  but  in 
the  gentlest  of  voices.  "  'No  admittance.'  We  mean 
it.  You've  no  business  here.  Kindly  go  away." 

"If  I  say  no?" 

"I'll  fling  you  out." 

Tyler  looked  at  his  antagonist,  and  the  pith  went 
out  of  his  courage.  He  knew  himself  to  be  the 
weaker  man,  and  he  had  no  mind  to  be  discomfited 
before  his  following.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"We'll  all  go,"  he  gibed.  "Come  on,  boys!" 

"The  molders  have  refused  to  go.  Don't  be 
fooled,  boys !"  shouted  a  voice  from  the  doorway. 
Tyler  marched  out,  his  shoulders  back  and  chest 
expanded.  About  half  the  men  followed  him.  The 
moment  Tyler's  back  was  over  the  sill  the  door 
swung,  and  the  Edgewater  young  man,  whose  move 
ments  were  of  exceeding  swiftness,  turned  the  key 
and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket.  This  stratagem 
obliged  the  striking  employees  to  file  down  the  aisles 
and  pass  out  the  large  door  under  the  very  eyes  of 
their  employers.  A  clerk  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with 
hair  parted  symmetrically  in  the  middle  and  cut 
regularly  around  his  girlish  face,  was  taking  down 
on  his  pad  the  names,  which  a  perspiring  young  man 
in  a  flannel  shirt,,  with  an  unintentional  smudge  on 
his  nose,  was  repeating  to  him  in  a  low  voice.  This 
procedure  had  a  dampening  effect  on  the  finish  of  the 
drama,  since  a  number  of  the  malcontents  flagged, 
a  few  even  slipped  back  to  their  benches ;  only  about 


HAST   THOU   FOUND    ME,   O    MINE   ENEMY    389 

a  third  of  the  men  held  steady.  These  walked  dog 
gedly  past  Hopkins,  staring  straight  ahead.  But 
one  halted  and  turned  his  face,  where  toil  and  years 
had  whitened  the  bristle  of  a  stubbly  beard,  up  at 
Hopkins,  and  the  tears  rose  to  his  tired  blue  eyes. 

"That  man  broke  his  leg  and  was  laid  up  for  three 
months,  and  the  company  paid  his  doctor's  bills  and 
full  wages/'  the  clerk  recited.  "Look  at  him  now !" 

"I'm  sorry  to  see  you  quitting,  Dennis,"  said 
Hopkins. 

The  man  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"Thirty  years,"  he  muttered ;  "I  never  quit  before, 
never.  You  mind  that.  But  I  belong  to  the  union, 
and  the  word's  gone  out." 

"Oh,  damn  your  union!"  snapped  the  Chicago 
man;  "much  your  union  would  do  for  you  if  you 
were  in  trouble." 

"The  union's  all  right,"  called  a  cheerful  voice; 
"the  thing  to  do  is  to  get  the  union  to  send  all  you 
boys  back  in  a  hurry."  The  young  superinten 
dent  had  crossed  the  room  and  was  standing  behind 
the  elders.  The  words  drew  from  the  Chicago  man 
a  freezing  look,  but  Rivers  clapped  him  on  the  back. 

"Right,  sonny;  you've  sized  up  the  situation,"  his 
deep  bass  grumbled. 

The  young  man  sent  back  a  bright  smile  and  a 
"Thank  you,  sir,"  as  he  took  his  own  way  outside. 
He  could  hear  Hopkins  thanking  the  machinists  and 
the  others  who  had  remained,  in  the  language  of  a 
man  who  had  not  forgotten  that  once  he  had  worked 
with  his  own  hands.  The  young  fellow  linked  his 
arm  in  that  of  one  of  the  strikers,  a  man  he  knew, 
who  had  recently  been  in  trouble. 


390  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

"I  was  sorry  to  hear  about  it,  Ellison,"  he  said. 
"I  knew  what  a  good  wife  she  was  and  what  a  good 
woman."  The  man's  chin  quivered. 

"That's  right,"  he  muttered.  "Say,  I  ain't 
thanked  you  for  the  flowers.  Say,  they  give  me  the 
day  off  and  jest  the  same  in  the  envelope,  Wednes 
day." 

"Too  bad  you  had  to  go  out,"  the  young  man  con 
tinued;  "get  the  boys  out  of  this  ridiculous  notion 
as  soon  as  you  can." 

"I  didn't  know  but  you'd  be  mad,  me  going  out — " 

"When  a  man  belongs  to  a  union  he  has  to  obey 
orders ;  but  you  can  do  your  best  to  get  them  back — " 
He  stopped,  perceiving  Tyler  in  front  of  him,  a  man 
on  either  side. 

"You — damn — renegade!"  he  drawled  with  a 
kind  of  ferocious  simper.  "I'll  be  even  with  you 
this  deal,  Ivan  Gleetzin !" 

"I'm  no  renegade,  and  you  know  it," — William 
Hopkins,  in  the  doorway,  heard  the  voice  with  its 
neat,  clipped  Eastern  modulations  strike  every  word 
clearly,  although  its  pitch  was  not  raised — "and 
don't  call  me  Ivan ;  my  name  is  John  Winslow." 

None  of  the  men  quite  took  in  the  significance  of 
the  speech  except  Rivers  and  Hopkins.  Rivers 
wagged  his  great  head  without  a  sound,  but  Hopkins 
strode  up  to  Johnny,  extending  his  hand. 

"Glad  to  see  you  back,  Johnny,"  said  he  heartily* 
"will  you  come  round  this  evening  and  dine  with 
Mrs.  Winslow  and  us — or  ain't  you  quite  ready  for 
that?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Johnny;  "but  thank  you.  Thank 
you,  awfully." 


CHAPTER    X 

AMELIA   ANN,    HER    HORSE 

The  manner  of  Johnny's  coming  to  Fairport  was 
this :  Mueller,  the  shipping  clerk,  had  a  wife  and 
family.  The  wife  was  accustomed  to  declare  that 
the  city  was  no  place  for  growing  children.  After 
the  cable-car  ran  over  the  baby  under  his  mother's 
very  eyes,  Mueller  was  of  his  wife's  opinion. 
Granted  the  baby  was  not  hurt,  being  run  over  purely 
as  a  figure  of  speech,  since  the  fender  caught  the 
chubby  three-year-old  body  and  rolled  it  into  its 
beneficent  lap,  while  Mrs.  Mueller  gazed  in  horror 
passing  speech,  still  there  was  no  gainsaying  the  aw- 
fulness  of  the  risk ! 

To  complete  the  chain  of  conversion  in  Mueller's 
mind,  his  brother-in-law,  who  was  a  bookkeeper  at 
the  Edgewater,  wrote  him  of  a  shipping  clerk's  po 
sition  vacant  there,  and,  with  the  American  facility 
of  shift,  Mueller  turned  from  groceries  to  rounds 
and  ovals  and  scrap-iron. 

It  was  a  natural  sequence  of  events  that  he  should 
write  to  Johnny  and  praise  the  Edgewater  as  the 
best  place  on  earth  for  a  young  man  to  learn  the 
steel  business.  "Open  shop,  and  you  won't  have 
no  trouble  about  apprenticeships ;  and  you'll  find  the 
old  man  will  push  you  as  fast  as  you're  worth  it !" 

Therefore  Johnny  came.     From  the  first  he  got 


392  THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 

on.  He  went  through  the  customary  steel  workers' 
horse-play  in  trial  of  his  fortitude  and  his  good  hu 
mor  ;  these,  to  a  man  who  had  "run  for  the  Dickey" 
in  Harvard,  were  but  artless  fooling;  he  was  soon 
matriculated  as  "not  afraid  of  hot  iron"  and  always 
good-natured.  His  strength  and  dexterity  counted 
as  such  manly  traits  count  wherever  life  comes  down 
to  its  elemental  basis.  His  sweet  temper  and  his 
sense  of  humor  won  him  friends  from  the  first.  In 
his  new  experiment  he  made  no  secret  of  his  inten 
tion  to  become  a  master  instead  of  a  man.  To  his 
surprise,  the  frankness,  which  he  had  expected  to 
alienate,  seemed  rather  to  attract  confidence.  As 
a  social  reformer,  a  little  brother  to  the  poor,  who 
would  strip  himself  and  share  their  lot  to  the  dregs, 
he  had  met  an  intangible  barrier  of  suspicion,  a 
nameless  doubt  whether  there  were  not  some  ulte 
rior  motive  of  ambition  behind  this  reckless  philan 
thropy.  Just  before  he  left  Chicago  a  socialist  came 
to  bid  him  farewell.  He  was  a  man  whom  Johnny 
regarded  with  loving  respect  because  of  his  purity 
of  soul,  his  absolute  devotion  to  his  cause  and  his 
unlimited  self-sacrifice;  and  never  did  any  change 
of  faith  or  alienation  of  circumstances  affect  the  feel 
ing.  Writing  to  Roger  Mack  of  this  man,  Johnny 
said,  "I  feel  like  calling  him  St.  Francis,  for  he 
comes  nearer  that  gentle  and  broad-minded  saint 
than  any  one  I  ever  saw."  St.  Francis  had  suffered 
when  Johnny  fell  away  from  his  first  ardor,  but  his 
soul  clave  to  the  boy,  even  after  he  became  a  casta 
way.  Several  times  he  had  visited  Johnny  in  the 
hospital,  always  bearing  him  some  gift  of  flowers 
out  of  his  poverty,  for  he  was  very  poor — not  that 


AMELIA   ANN,    HER   HORSE  393 

he  did  not  earn  a  good  sum,  for  this  he  did,  being 
an  expert  and  exquisitely  careful  silversmith,  but 
he  spent  all  but  the  barest  subsistence  on  the  needs 
of  his  party.  St.  Francis  looked  sadly  at  Johnny 
when  he  bade  him  farewell. 

"You  will  never  come  back/'  he  said.  "You  will 
go  to  your  own  class.  You  didn't  know  it,  but  you 
never  really  left  it.  You  were  never  a  socialist ;  you 
were  only  an  adventurer  in  benevolence." 

"And  my  adventure  has  failed,"  said  Johnny,  at 
tempting  no  useless  denial. 

"It  ought  to  fail,"  replied  his  friend,  with  a  ges 
ture  of  his  thin  hands,  one  passing  swiftly  over  the 
other,  as  if  flinging  something  away;  "it  ought  to 
fail.  The  redemption  of  humanity  is  not  an  alms; 
it  is  a  religion." 

Perhaps  an  undefined  resentment  against  the  com 
passion  under  Johnny's  impulsive  generosity  may 
have  worked  with  the  men  whose  friendship  he 
coveted  most,  and  the  taint  of  it  may  have  affected 
his  fellow  workmen,  at  least  at  first.  Whatever  the 
reason,  he  never  quite  lost  his  sense  of  their  unex 
pressed,  unconquerable  distrust.  But,  now,  as  a 
workingman  who  meant  to  strain  every  nerve  to  rise 
out  of  his  class,  he  met  with  the  friendliest  sympa 
thy.  His  lovable  qualities  were  loved  without  ques 
tion.  He  found  himself  nearer  his  mates  than  ever 
before,  and  at  the  same  time  he  felt  a  keener  interest 
and  more  brotherly  compassion  for  them  than  when 
interest  and  compassion  were  his  imperious  duty. 

It  was  about  this  time  he  wrote  to  Roger  Mack : 
"I  believe  Amiel  was  right :  'What  is  normal  is,  at 
once,  most  convenient,  most  honest  and  most  whole- 


394 


THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 


some.  Cross-roads  may  tempt  us  for  one  reason  or 
another,  but  it  is  very  seldom  we  do  not  come  to 
regret  having  taken  them/  The  whole  socialistic 
scheme  is  abnormal.  It  would  only  be  possible  in  the 
millennium  when  we  were  all  saints — and  then  it 
would  be  unnecessary." 

Peggy  sighed  from  pure  delight  as  she  read  the 
letter.  "And  he  forgot  to  explain  who  Amiel  was ! 
Or  else  he  was  ashamed  to  take  the  airs  of  a  teacher," 
she  cried. 

The  very  Saturday  before  the  strike  Johnny  won 
his  promotion.  He  was  nearer  at  rest  in  his  mind 
than  he  had  been  in  years.  To  celebrate  the  occa 
sion  he  took  all  the  children  to  drive  in  the  country. 
They  enjoyed  the  occasion  beyond  words,  particu 
larly  Amelia  Ann,  who  was  allowed  to  drive. 

Amelia  Ann,  also,  was  less  unhappy  than  she 
had  been.  When  she  first  came  to  their  neat  new 
abode,  where  they  had  the  whole  of  five  rooms,  a 
yard  and  a  pump  of  their  own,  Amelia  Ann  was  a 
rebel  who  loathed  her  lot.  She  did  not  take  to  the 
country.  She  was  an  urban  child.  For  her  the 
multitudinous  din,  surging  all  day  and  far  into  the 
night  about  their  tenement,  which  reared  its  eight 
wooden  stories  against  the  brick  walls  of  the  great 
brewery,  was  soothing  as  the  hum  of  the  water- 
wheel  to  a  miller.  The  sickly  sweetness  of  stale 
beer  which  was  wafted  from  the  gutters,  the  ether- 
like  odor  of  banana  and  the  pungent  savor  of  the 
restaurant  onion  stung  her  nostrils  pleasantly  in  re 
membrance,  and  she  sniffed  contemptuously  at  the 
pastures  smelling  of  new-mown  hay. 

"Ain't  it  nasty?"  said  Amelia  Ann.    She  pined 


AMELIA   ANN,    HER    HORSE  395 

for  the  incessant  variety  of  the  pavements,  the  mot 
ley  crowd,  the  blare  of  the  brass  bands,  the  thrill  of 
the  plunging  fire-engines  which  could  run  over 
people  and  the  driver  never  be  arrested,  the  occa 
sional  glorious  pageant  of  a  military  procession,  the 
breathless  interest'of  a  street  fight. 

She  yearned  for  the  vanished  audiences  before 
which  she  danced  or  sang  or  was  the  "India  Rubber 
Gymnast."  The  stout  policeman  often  flung  her  an 
orange  or  an  apple — they  cost  him  naught — uncon 
scious  of  the  times  a  gurgle  of  laughter  had  followed 
her  mimicry  of  his  pomp  as  she  followed  his  stately 
passage  down  the  street.  The  saloon-keeper,  oppo 
site,  served  her  a  dainty  from  his  free  lunch.  Even 
Tony  of  the  push-cart  would  sometimes  part  with  a 
banana  over  her  Bella  Napoli.  She  didn't  under 
stand  a  word,  but  she  gave  an  absolute  copy  of  an 
Italian's  rendering,  homesick  pathos  and  all.  Yes, 
no  doubt,  unpleasant  as  Mrs.  Delaney  could  be, 
Amelia  Ann  had  enjoyed  her  city  life.  Here  she  had 
Mrs.  Delaney  still — a  larger  dose  of  Mrs.  Delaney — 
for  she  only  took  in  fine  washing  and  kept  the  house, 
now — with  none  of  the  compensations  of  Chicago. 

They  lived  out  of  the  town,  past  the  shops  at 
least,  if  not  past  the  houses,  on  a  street-car  line 
which  ran  twice  an  hour  only,  and  the  motorman 
would  stop  the  car  if  you  stood  on  the  track !  What 
kind  of  street-car  was  that!  She  asked  one  of  the 
motormen  how  many  people  he  had  run  over,  and 
he  said,  "Not  one,"  and  that  he  never  meant  to. 
Secretly  she  despised  this  pusillanimous  mercy. 

The  first  week  of  her  exile  Amelia  Ann  was  so 
wretched  that  she  had  serious  thoughts  of  setting 


396  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

fire  to  the  house — a  drastic  measure  which  she  final 
ly  abandoned  as  useless,  since  Johnny  would  only 
rent  another.  Besides,  it  would  worry  him,  and 
Amelia  Ann  was  fond  of  Johnny.  He  was,  also,  for 
all  his  gentleness,  the  only  being  w^hom  she  feared. 
He  made  her  want  to  cry  when  she  had  been  bad. 
But  with  the  second  week  came  relief ;  she  discovered 
the  cow,  the  calf  and  the  horse  of  the  Millers.  The 
Miller  twins  lived  in  the  next  house — the  same 
Miller  twins  whose  priceless  old  delft  Johnny  re 
membered  as  the  cause  of  some  of  his  liveliest  emo 
tions  when  he  was  a  child.  They  were  grown  older 
and,  thanks  to  a  departed  kinsman,  richer,  although 
far  from  rich ;  and  they  had  purchased  a  "place."  A 
venerable  cousin  lived  with  them.  Their  larger  in 
come  also  permitted  a  maid-of-all-work  and  a  boy, 
who  tended  the  horse  and  cow  and  worked  in  the 
garden  out  of  school  hours.  The  family  consisted 
of  the  three  women,  the  maid,  and  the  horse,  which 
was  named  Ally  after  one  of  the  twins.  Neither  of 
the  sisters  recognized  Johnny,  but  he  recognized 
them,  and  his  heart  warmed  to  them.  An  occasion 
pf  acquaintance  soon  presented  itself. 

One  winter  evening  Miss  Tina  appeared  at  the 
fence  and  hailed  Mrs.  Delaney.  She  was  much  per 
turbed.  She  explained  that  the  boy  hadn't  come, 
although  it  was  now  half-past  six;  the  cow  ought — 
Miss  Tina  had  her  old  habitude  of  deserting  her  sen 
tences  at  the  crucial  phrase — really  the  cow  ought, — 
the  young  man  who  boarded  at  Mrs.  Delaney 's,  did 
he  know  how  to  milk?  Johnny  volunteered  to  try, 
vaguely  recalling  milking  under  Michael. 

"If  you  would  attempt  the  manual  part,"  stam- 


AMELIA   ANN,    HER   HORSE  397 

mered  Miss  Tina,  "sister  and  I  are  acquainted  with 
the  theory;  we  could  direct  and  hold  the  lamp.  One 
of  us  could  hold  the  lamp,  and  another  have  a  pail 
of  water  in  case — but  our  cow  never  kicks.  Per 
haps,  together — " 

Amelia  Ann  admired  Johnny's  careless  ease.  He 
said  he  could  manage.  He  let  her  (Amelia  Ann) 
hold  the  lantern.  The  sisters  only  flitted  in  and  out, 
in  shawls,  their  white  hair  blowing.  Amelia  Ann 
heard  one  of  them  whisper  to  the  other  that  he 
(meaning  Johnny)  seemed  a  very  respectable  young 
man,  how  much — ?  And  the  other  returned,  "Oh, 
I  don't  know ;  he  seems  almost  a  gentleman ;  do  you 
think — ?"  Johnny  helped  them  out  of  their  di 
lemma  by  cutting  into  Miss  Tina's  hesitating :  "You 
have  been  so  very  good,  we  feel — we  ought — 
may — "  with  a  smiling :  "Oh,  don't  mention  it ;  we 
are  your  nearest  neighbors,  you  know.  Good  even 
ing." 

Next  day  the  sisters  sent  over  a  hot  steamed  apple 
dumpling,  and  Amelia  Ann  thought  better  of  them. 
From  this  time  there  gradually  grew  a  depend 
ence  on  Johnny.  When  the  horse  was  cast  in  her 
stall,  he  rescued  her  and  got  her  on  to  her  feet  with 
out  a  scratch.  One  night  the  Millers  chased  sleep 
from  the  cottage  by  an  alarm  of  fire  screamed  by 
Miss  Tina  out  of  the  window.  On  Johnny's  appear 
ance  (clandestinely  followed  by  Amelia  Ann),  Miss 
Tina  and  Miss  Ally  appeared,  clutching  each  other, 
and  clad  mostly  in  quilts,  and  Miss  Ally  explained 
that  the  alarm  of  fire  was  a  "subterfuge."  "There 
were  burglars  breaking  in,  and  we  thought — "  The 
burglars  proved  to  be  the  calf,  which  had  escaped 


398  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

from  its  pen  and,  with  bovine  stupidity,  was  trying 
to  find  its  mother  under  the  front  porch,  where  she 
could  not  possibly  squeeze;  however,  there  was  no 
less  need  of  a  manly  arm,  since  the  bewildered  and 
desolate  calf  must  be  restored  to  its  home. 

But  it  was  as  an  amateur  veterinary  that  Johnny 
was  most  resplendent. 

The  day  after  the  calf's  unsuccessful  attempt  to 
"break  and  enter,"  Miss  Tina  appeared  at  the  fence. 
It  was  a  point  of  dignity  with  her  never  to  go 
farther  than  her  own  fence,  the  gifts  of  small  fruits 
and  vegetables,  which  set  in  with  the  coming  of  sum 
mer,  being  always  borne  over  by  the  Swedish  maid- 
of-all-work,  with  Miss  Miller's  compliments.  Mrs. 
Delaney  cherished  a  bed  of  pansies  near  the  Miller 
fence.  When  she  weeded  it,  what  more  natural 
than  for  her  neighbor  to  approach  and  forget  the 
difference  of  station  in  an  amiable  effort  to  instruct  ? 
What  more  seemly  than  that  the  welfare  of  the  dif 
ferent  households  should  be  approached  politely; 
that,  by  degrees,  Miss  Tina  should  learn  the  sicken 
ing  rapidity  with  which  the  young  Blokers  wore  out 
their  shoes,  the  housewifely  virtues  of  Thyrza,  the 
sweetness  of  Franzy  and  the  heart-breaking  "devil- 
ishness,  no  less,"  of  Amelia  Ann,  or,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  Mrs.  Delaney  should  discover  that  the 
Millers'  girl  broke  more  dishes  than  any  other  the 
household  had  ever  had  ("and  when  my  dear  mother 
was  alive  we  kept  two,"  said  Miss  Tina),  and  that 
Cousin  Matilda  was  such  a  terrible  sufferer  from 
nervous  dyspepsia,  that  Miss  Tina  feared  it  might 
go  to  her  heart ! 

Mrs.  Delaney  was  full  of  sympathy;  Miss  Miller 


AMELIA   ANN,   HER   HORSE  399 

with  dignity  responded  kindly.  Having  never 
been  married,  naturally  she  had  distinct  theories  re 
garding  the  management  of  children,  which  Mrs. 
Delaney  received  with  respect.  By  temperament 
Miss  Tina  was  of  a  plaintive  cast,  Miss  Ally  inclin 
ing  to  hope  and  even  liking  to  joke  at  broken  dishes. 
As  Mrs.  Delaney's  Celtic  politeness  made  her  take 
the  color  of  the  other's  mood,  Miss  Tina  and  she 
would  often  wade  in  sorrow  up  to  their  eyes.  Con 
sequently,  this  morning,  perceiving  the  sad  approach 
of  Miss  Tina,  Mrs.  Delaney's  smile  fell  off  and  her 
brow  puckered  into  decent  gloom. 

"And  sure,  what  is  it  has  happened,  Miss  Miller?" 
she  hailed,  so  soon  as  it  was  decent  to  speak,  for 
some  sentiments  it  is  not  decorum  to  shout;  "I  can 
see  plain  yous  have  a  new  grief.  Don't  be  tellin' 
me  your  poor  cousin — " 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  choked  Miss  Tina,  with  an  inflec 
tion  which  almost  hinted  that  the  trouble  was  worse 
than  Miss  Matilda's  demise ;  "no — oh,  Mrs.  Delaney, 
a  most  dreadful,  dreadful  calamity — " 

"Whist,  now!"  deplored  Mrs.  Delaney.  "I 
knowed  it  the  minute  I  seen  you  come  by.  But  what 
wit?" 

Miss  Tina's  utterance  was  broken;  she  almost 
sobbed :  "Our  Ally— our  Ally—" 

Not  for  a  second  did  honest  Mrs.  Delaney  recall 
the  Miller  horse,  which  was  like  one  of  the  family. 

"Oh,  what's  come  to  her?"  she  gasped  in  real  con 
cern,  for  she  had  a  true  regard  for  the  cheerful, 
hard-working,  frivolous  Miss  Ally. 

Miss  Tina  gurgled  the  words  behind  her  hand 
kerchief: 


400  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"She — she  plunges  at  sheets!" 

"Hivins!"  groaned  Mrs.  Delaney.  Exactly  why 
poor  Miss  Ally  should  plunge  at  sheets  the  sympa 
thizer  could  not  imagine,  but  such  behavior  in  an 
elderly  gentlewoman  could  portend  but  one  awesome 
fact.  She  glanced  compassionately  at  Miss  Tina 
dabbling  at  her  eyes. 

"And  your  poor  cousin  mabbe  on  her  dying  bed !" 
she  bemoaned.  "Have  yous  had  the  doctor?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  had  him  twice.  Poor  cousin  doesn't 
know,  yet." 

"Oh,  'tis  most  distressing!  What  doctor  was  it, 
plase?" 

"Doctor  Smith." 

"What  Doctor  Smith?" 

"The  good  Doctor  Smith." 

"What  was  he  saying?  Maybe  'tis  a  passing  dis 
order  that  will  yield  to  the  good  tratement  ?" 

"He  says,"  bewailed  Miss  Tina  in  a  fresh  access 
of  grief,  "he  says  she's  going  blind,  and — and  she'll 
have  to  be  killed!" 

Horror  and  amazement  struck  Mrs.  Delaney 
dumb  one  second ;  then  "The  murtherin'  villin !"  she 
cried  hotly;  "you  ain't  manin' — oh,  ma'am,  try  the 
asylims — "  but  in  the  very  flood-tide  of  her  protest 
her  ear  caught  a  squeak  of  ungovernable  mirth  pro 
ceeding  from  the  wood-pile,  and  a  rapid  glance  that 
way  discerned  the  tip  of  an  untidy  shoe.  It  could 
belong  to  but  one  person — only  the  abominable  little 
Amelia  Ann  could  giggle  over  murder!  Mrs.  De- 
laney's  outraged  soul  overflowed.  Three  strides 
brought  her  arm  into  focus,  one  masterly  spring 
caught  and  clutched  the  skirts  of  the  fleeing.  The 


AMELIA   ANN,    HER   HORSE  401 

other  arm  rose  for  a  box  that  should  make  Amelia 
Ann's  head  ring;  but  Amelia  Ann  ducked,  grinning 
and  squealing:  "Asylums  for  bosses!  It's  Ally, 
the  hoss,  she  means!  Oh,  my!" — and  went  into 
impish  cachinnations. 

Now,  another  than  a  Celt  might  have  been 
abashed,  and,  in  her  embarrassment,  have  loosened 
her  grip;  but  the  Celt's  wits  are  nimble.  Mrs.  De- 
laney  took  mental  breath  while  she  shook  Amelia 
Ann. 

"You're  a  wicked  child  and  me  heart's  fair  broke 
wid  yous,"  she  bawled,  "laffin'  over  a  kind  lady's 
misforchunes  wid  a  beautiful  hoss  that's  like  her 
own  kin!  Take  shame,  ye  hard-hearted  little  viper!" 

Then,  still  firmly  holding  the  writhing  little 
shoulders,  she  made  her  apology  to  Miss  Tina,  who 
had  ceased  to  \veep,  in  the  shock  of  the  spectacle. 
"You'll  pardon  me,  plase,  ma'am.  But  this  wicked 
little  cratur  drives  me  out  of  me  mind.  Sure,  don't 
be  so  desparit  about  the  poor  hoss.  They'd  orter  be 
asylims  or  hospitils — 'twas  the  \vord  in  me  mind. 
I'm  not  eddicated  like  you,  ma'am — hospitils  for 
hosses,  if  they  ain't.  But,  annyhow,  don't  give  up 
till  you've  seen  Mr.  Gleason;  he'll  know.  And  I 
mind  me,  now,  he  cured  a  hoss  of  the  blind  staggers, 
no  less,  in  Chicago ;  'twas  a  hoss  in  the  brewery  near 
us,  and  he  said  at  the  time  that  he  got  the  way  of  it 
from  a  man  lives  right  here,  keeps  the  big  livery 
stable  in  Fairport,  his  name's  Durrill,  or  some  sech 
like—" 

"I  know  him"  ejaculated  Miss  Tina;  "this  is 
wonderful,  really  providential !  My  poor  sister  Ally 
was  saying  this  morning,  she  couldn't  bear — we've 


402  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

been  so  fond  of  the  horse,  you  know.    I'll  speak  to 
Mr.  Gleason  this  afternoon.  He'll  know  what's  best." 

"He  will  that.  And  now,  I'll  bid  you  good  day, 
ma'am,  for  me  arrm  is  aching  wid  the  pullin'  and 
scratchin'  of  this  little  wild  baste  and  I'll  take  her 
in  and  lick  the  stuffin'  outer  her,  plase  God.  Don't 
be  dishturbed  when  yous  hear  the  screeches." 

Amelia  Ann  cast  a  frantic  glance  townward,  but 
it  was  too  soon  for  Johnny's  car,  and  the  present 
angering  of  Mrs.  Delaney  was  but  the  cap-sheaf 
of  days'  iniquities.  Even  her  stubborn  courage 
quailed  at  the  glint  in  the  matron's  eye.  But  help 
came  from  an  unexpected  quarter;  Miss  Tina  her 
self  interceded  for  the  little  girl  who  didn't  mean 
any  harm  to  poor  horsey,  she  was  sure. 

"You  ain't  seen  her  trying  to  ride  your  caff,  then, 
I'm  thinking?" 

Miss  Tina's  compassion  was  proof.  "I'm  sure  she 
wouldn't  hurt  it,"  said  she.  "I'm  not  so  sure  the  calf 
mightn't  hurt  her,"  she  added,  for  the  dejected  Miss 
Tina  owned  a  saving  streak  of  humor.  Eventually 
she  foiled  justice,  and  Amelia  Ann  had  the  grace  to 
feel  a  tepid  shame,  remembering  how  she  had  mis 
used  the  cherished  Miller  calf  with  a  limber  switch. 

Johnny,  however,  repaid  all  favors.  He  carried 
the  day  against  the  "good"  veterinary ;  he  persuaded 
Miss  Miller  to  take  Ally  to  Luke  Darrell's  and,  later, 
he  took  charge  of  that  gentle  plunger  himself.  Thus 
it  fell  out  that  Amelia  Ann  became  acquainted  with 
a  horse.  Johnny  knew  too  much  to  leave  any  unpro 
tected  beast  in  the  path  of  Amelia  Ann's  reckless 
curiosity.  He  met  the  danger  in  his  own  way,  by 
disarming  the  foe.  He  took  the  child  out  to  the  lit- 


AMELIA  ANN,   HER   HORSE  403 

tie  pasture  where  the  horse  was;  he  told  Amelia 
Ann  what  a  faithful,  kind  horse  Ally  had  been  al 
ways;  he  described  the  sorrowful  fate  menacing  her. 
"But  I  think,"  said  Johnny  very  seriously,  "if  you 
will  help  me,  I  can  cure  her." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  Thyrza?  sneered  Amelia 
Ann;  "she's  a  good  girl,  I'm  a  devil." 

Johnny  smiled  and  patted  the  thin  shoulders 
shrugging  out  of  her  frock. 

"Thyrza  is  a  good  little  girl,  but  she  doesn't  know 
so  much  about  some  things  as  you  and  I,  and  I  have 
more  confidence  in  your  judgment  about  horses. 
Now  listen."  He  detailed  all  the  simple  measures 
of  care,  the  feeding  and  giving  the  horse  drink,  the 
flax-seed  in  the  food,  the  bathing  the  eyes.  Would 
she  attend  to  them  and  not  let  anybody  bother  Ally  ? 

"Yes,  I  will,"  said  Amelia  Ann  carelessly,  but 
with  inward  mounting  pride;  "you  show  me,  once." 

So  Johnny  took  Amelia  Ann  by  the  hand  and  led 
her  up  to  Ally.  He  patted  Ally's  neck  while  he  spoke. 
"Ally,  this  is  your  own  particular  vet.  She  is  going 
to  take  care  of  you  and  never  let  any  of  the  boys 
ride  you,  or  the  flies  vex  you ;  she'll  never  let  you  be 
hungry  or  thirsty,  and  she  will  help  me  bathe  your 
poor  eyes  every  morning  and  evening.  And  when 
you  get  well,  we  will  ask  Miss  Tina  and  Miss  Ally 
to  let  her  drive  you." 

This  is  the  way  Amelia  Ann  learned  that  she  had 
a  heart,  and  grew  to  love  a  horse,  which,  in  her  case, 
was  the  beginning  of  wisdom. 

None  suspected  the  part  Ally  and  Amelia  Ann 
were  to  play  in  the  fortunes  of  Johnny  and  the  Old 
Colony  Plow  Company. 


CHAPTER  XI 
HIS  FATHER'S  OWN  SON 

The  morning  after  the  strike,  Johnny  sat  in  the 
office  of  the  president  of  the  Old  Colony  Plow  Com 
pany,  which  had  been  his  father's,  and  looked  about 
him  with  a  strange  moving  of  the  heart.  How  fa 
miliar  it  all  was !  The  oaken  wainscoting,  dull  and 
substantial,  the  walls  calcimined  in  serviceable 
brown,  the  ceiling  of  a  lighter  shade,  the  comfortable 
leather-covered  arm-chairs  built  for  men  of  gener 
ous  mold;  the  map  of  the  river,  the  island  and  the 
three  towns  hanging  beside  the  pen-and-ink  draw 
ing  of  the  Old  Colony  shops  in  their  modest  be 
ginnings,  between  the  windows,  and  the  good  old 
war  governor  of  Iowa,  wearing  the  famous 
"dickey"  and  shoe-string  black  tie,  on  which  John 
ny's  childish  eyes  used  to  gaze. 

The  sole  change  he  could  find  was  a  large  photo 
graph  of  the  portrait  of  Josiah  Winslow,  the  origi 
nal  of  which  hung  in  Mrs.  Winslow's  writing-room. 
Johnny  looked  from  it  to  the  red  baize-covered  table, 
by  which  Rivers  and  Hopkins  sat;  the  same  table 
where  he  had  seen  them  both,  aforetime,  because  the 
business  relations  between  the  Old  Colony  and  the 
Edgewater  had  always  been  intimate;  the  same 
table,  the  same  group — save  one.  But  it  was  that 
one  Johnny  saw  more  clearly  than  the  living,  breath- 

404 


HIS    FATHER'S   OWN    SON  405 

ing  men  before  him.  He  sat  as  he  used  to  sit,  one 
arm  flung  over  the  back  of  his  chair,  one  elbow  on 
the  table,  untidily  chewing  the  end  of  his  cigar  as  he 
smoked,  his  heavily  molded,  patient,  tired  face  in 
its  undecipherable  mask  of  attention,  broken  now 
and  then  by  a  dry  sort  of  smile. 

The  child  Johnny  used  to  be  allowed  to  play  with 
the  catalogues,  even  to  cut  out  the  dazzling  two- 
horse  plows  and  cultivators  with  a  pair  of  round- 
pointed  scissors  which  his  father  kept  for  him.  The 
young  man  was  beginning  to  remember  how  his 
father  never  seemed  to  weary  of  his  company,  but 
rather,  in  a  shy  and  awkward  fashion,  devised  en 
tertainments  which  should  keep  him  content  in  the 
shops.  Many  a  tour  had  he  made,  holding  on  to  his 
father's  big  hand,  through  the  roaring  machine- 
shops  and  the  flaming,  beautiful,  terrible  foundry  to 
the  peace  of  the  painting  room,  which  proved  most 
dangerous  of  all,  since  after  he  had  tipped  a  pail  of 
green  paint  on  his  white  sailor  trousers  and  got  red 
paint  in  his  hair,  the  shop  visits  were  forbidden. 
Yet,  usually,  his  disasters  to  clothing  were  treated 
most  leniently  by  the  Princess  Olga.  There  was  a 
closet  in  the  wall — yes,  it  was  there  now ;  very  likely 
it  held  bottles  of  the  same  stout  aspect,  the  same  lit 
tle  tumblers,  and  in  the  cigar  boxes  with  the  ships 
sailing  over  the  cover,  were  big,  brown,  moist  cigars 
with  bands  of  paper  about  them,  such  as  a  little  boy 
had  admired;  and  there  used  to  be  a  box  of  gum- 
drops,  which  wouldn't  stick  his  hands  up  or  do  very 
much  harm  to  his  stomach,  and  which  were  always 
fresh.  Johnny  used  to  wonder  at  a  big  man's  being 
so  fond  of  gum-drops. 


406  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

Rivers  and  Hopkins  sat  as  they  always  sat ;  Rivers 
all  over  his  chair,  glooming  at  his  big  boots,  Hop 
kins  figuring  and  drawing  on  a  pad,  as  he  talked. 
In  his  youth  he  had  had  a  taste  for  drawing,  soon 
diverted  to  mechanical  art;  but  a  trick  of  sketching 
idly  as  he  thought  clung  to  him,  and  by  the  time  a 
business  meeting  of  the  Old  Colony  directors  was 
finished,  the  table  would  be  littered  with  stray  sheets 
covered  with  primitive  landscapes,  heads  of  men 
and  beasts,  or  very  capable  machines. 

Winslow  had  a  habit  of  drawing  these  illustra 
tions  to  him,  when  the  meeting  was  over.  On  such 
occasions  Hopkins'  face  wore  a  singularly  mixed 
expression.  It  was  a  blend  of  amusement  and  ad 
miration,  with  a  dash  of  apprehension. 

"Humph !  that's  what  you  were  thinking,  was  it?" 
Winslow  was  apt  to  say,  after  his  examination,  lay 
ing  one  square-tipped  finger  on  some  particular  ob 
ject  depicted.  This  object  would  meet  the  eye  on 
most  of  the  pages.  It  was  a  key  to  thought  which 
Josiah  alone  knew  how  to  turn. 

The  fancy  wandered  through  Johnny's  mind  now, 
as  he  watched  Hopkins'  fingers  busied  with  his  red- 
ink  pen  and  his  pad,  that  he  should  like  to  see  the 
pictures  and  try  his  luck  at  the  cryptic  iteration  of 
the  shrewd  old  plow-maker's  thought.  Just  then 
Hopkins  spoke : 

"I  sent  for  you,  Johnny,  because  I  guess  you've 
got  some  stuff  in  you  and  want  a  chance  to  show  it. 
Hey?" 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Johnny. 

"Your  father  would  be  glad  to  see  you  here  to 
day,"  said  Hopkins. 


HIS   FATHER'S   OWN   SON  407 

Johnny's  olive  skin  grew  a  thought  paler;  that 
and  the  darkening  of  his  eyes  were  his  only  signs 
of  emotion,  yet  he  felt  strangely  shaken. 

"I  miss  your  father  a  good  deal,  a  good  deal,"  re 
peated  Hopkins.  "I'm  a  kind  of  ordnance  officer 
trying  to  be  general-in-chief.  It's  not  my  best  hold, 
this  bossing  the  whole  show.  It  was  his.  A  great 
organizer,  Johnny,  great,  and  nobody  had  better 
judgment  about  the  markets.  There  was  nothing 
small  about  him  either ;  he  saw  things  in  a  big  way ; 
he  had  a  long  look  ahead.  We're  doing  things,  now, 
he  planned  before  he  left  us."  Hopkins  sighed. 
"We'd  never  had  a  strike  if  he'd  been  here,  think, 
Rivers?" 

"Don't  know,"  said  Rivers ;  "he'd  a  lot  of  sense 
and  he  held  the  men  well  m  hand ;  but  this  thing  is 
getting  too  big  for  any  of  us  to  hold." 

Johnny  was  silent,  attentively  listening,  struggling 
underneath  with  a  great  rush  of  memories.  He 
looked  at  the  map  of  the  river  and  the  arsenal  be 
tween  the  towns.  His  father  had  held  a  little  boy 
up  before  it  and  pointed  out  the  one  building  on  the 
island,  nucleus  for  the  vast  storehouses  of  destruc 
tion  which  were  drawn  up  on  their  own  streets  now ; 
he  had  traced  the  river's  course  and  come  to  their 
own  town  and  to  some  tiny  rectangles.  Johnny 
found  that  he  was  recalling  his  very  words :  "Here 
we  are,  sonny,  our  shops,  mine  and  yours.  I  had 
hard  work  to  get  them,  Johnny;  be  careful  with 
them  when  they  come  to  you." 

All  at  once  the  unreasoning  hopes  of  youth  swelled 
his  heart.  "Some  day,"  he  swore  to  himself,  "I'll 
have  a  stake  in  this  again.  Here  is  where  I  belong." 


408  THE   MAN   OF   THE  HOUR 

"Well,  Johnny,"  said  Hopkins,  "I  guess  Rivers 
has  explained  the  situation.  We  thought  we  had 
piled  up  a  whole  lot  of  cultivators  and  sulky  rakes, 
but  we  underrated  the  shortage.  Everybody  cleaned 
up — clean.  We  have  got  a  sickening  lot  of  rush 
orders,  and  some  of  them  are  new  customers  in 
Australia  and  Japan.  If  we  can't  fill  the  orders  we'll 
lose  'em.  They'll  go  elsewhere.  Of  course,  we  are 
keeping  a  stiff  upper-lip ;  but  a  strike  just  now  hurts 
like  the  very  devil.  We  are  like  to  lose  seventy  thou 
sand  dollars  if  it  lasts  a  week  and  no  counting  how 
much  if  it  lasts  longer.  We've  got  to  keep  the  shops 
running." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Johnny. 

"Well,  what's  your  notion?  You  know  the  men 
better'n  we  do." 

"I  think  you're  right  in  what  you  were  thinking 
of  doing,"  said  Johnny.  As  he  spoke  he  drew  a  sheet 
of  paper  toward  him  and  the  tip  of  his  index  finger 
rested  on  a  scrawl. 

Rivers  and  Hopkins  exchanged  glances.  They 
were  smiling,  but  there  was  something  solemn  and 
moved  in  their  elderly  faces. 

"His  father,  over  again,"  Rivers  muttered  under 
his  breath. 

"Did  you  see  his  hand?  He  moves  it  just  the 
same  way,"  Hopkins  whispered.  He  turned  to  John 
ny  with  his  question : 

"What  was  I  thinking?" 

"Thinking  of  getting  men  in  and  lodging  them 
in  the  new  sheds." 

"How  do  you  figure  that  out?"  Hopkins  re 
plied. 


1 


BUT    HF    SAYS    HE   TAKES    PART    OF    THE    CARE    OF    THE    CHILDREN" 

p.  3*6 


HIS   FATHER'S    OWN    SON  409 

"That  cot,  sir.  You've  drawn  a  cot,  half  a  dozen 
times." 

"But  the  new  sheds  ?" 

"There's  nowhere  else  for  them  to  go,"  said 
Johnny. 

Hopkins  drew  a  deep  breath.  Rivers  smoked 
hard. 

"Got  a  good  many  of  the  old  man's  ways,"  said 
he. 

"Well,  how  does  it  strike  you?"  Hopkins'  voice 
had  a  queer  little  vibration;  it  was  like  the  shiver 
that  lingers  in  the  metal,  after  a  gong  has  been 
struck  and  the  ring  is  over. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Johnny.  "I  wish  we  might  have 
a  chance  to  influence  the  men;  but  you  haven't  got 
the  time.  I  suppose  you  have  some  new  men  in  mind. 
Negroes,  I  judge."  His  ringers  touched  a  sheet  of 
paper. 

"Yes,  there's  a  nigger's  head  in  the  pile,"  admit 
ted  Hopkins;  "we  can  get  a  lot  of  'em  if  we  want 
them,  down  the  railway.  Don't  know  a  washer  from 
a  bolt-head,  regular  forest  primeval  of  blockheads; 
but  the  Association  will  send  us  a  dozen  strike 
breakers  who  are  A  No.  i  workmen.  We  shall  have 
to  pay  them  big  money,  though.  You  know  the  man 
ufacturers  have  a  Protective  Association,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"I  was  a  union  molder  once,"  said  Johnny  lacon 
ically;  "but  these  fellows,  how  soon  can  we  get 
them?  We  ought  to  have  them  in  time  to  blow 
the  whistle  Monday.  They  aren't  expecting  any  such 
move,  and  the  pickets  will  go  home.  We  could  have 
them  come  in  on  the  three  A.  M.  train,  march  them 


410  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

up  to  the  shops  and  get  them  inside  before  they 
know  anything  about  it." 

Hopkins  grinned. 

"You  are  a  hustler !  I  thought  of  waiting  a  week 
for  the  boys  to  come  to  their  senses.  And  I  expected 
you  to  approve.  I  thought  you'd  be  for  handling 
them  with  padded  gloves  and  offering  'em  ice-cream. 
You  were  so  soft-spoken  to  those  fellows  yester 
day." 

"They're  all  right.  We  want  those  decent  fellows 
back,  don't  we?  And  I  believe  they  couldn't  help 
themselves.  In  their  places,  I  should  do  as  they  did. 
When  I  was  a  union  molder  at  Wethers'  I  did  my 
best  to  prevent  a  strike;  but  I  went  out  with  the 
others  when  the  firebugs  won.  But  I  didn't  rest  until 
the  conservatives  got  them  to  declare  the  strike  off. 
The  union  men  have  to  strike  together,  or  give  up 
their  cards.  We'll  have  to  try  to  undermine  Tyler 
and  get  the  strike  called  off.  That's  our  best  hold 
now.  The  non-union  men  will  come  dribbling  back 
as  soon  as  we  can  protect  them." 

"There'll  be  trouble  about  that,"  Rivers  remarked 
casually;  "the  mayor's  going  to  run  for  Congress; 
he's  laying  his  pipes  now." 

"Then  the  policemen  won't  work,"  groaned  Hop 
kins;  "they'll  see  the  pickets  pounding  our  men — " 

"No,  they  won't;  they  won't  see  a  thing  if  it's 
right  across  the  street.  They're  blind,"  growled 
Rivers. 

Johnny  struck  in :  "Excuse  me,  only  in  one  eye. 
You'll  find  if  our  men  resist  and  seem  likely  to  win, 
they'll  see  fast  enough.  But  we  can  keep  the  new 
men  inside,  and  take  care  of  them  pretty  well,  can't 


HIS   FATHER'S   OWN   SON  411 

we?  The  main  thing  is  to  prevent  the  whole  shop 
catching  the  fever  and  going  out.  They'll  all  go  to 
the  meeting  to-night,  of  course,  and  Tyler's  got 
some  good  news  for  them — " 

"Not  about  Wethers?" 

"Yes,  sir.    Wethers  has  signed  the  scale." 

"The  damn  skunk !"  was  all  Hopkins'  comment. 

"You  got  it  from  a  sure  source,  Johnny?"  said 
Rivers.  He  had  begun  to  call  his  young  friend 
Johnny,  almost  unconsciously. 

"Sure,  sir,  though  I  can't  give  it." 

"Probably.  The  surer  the  less  likely  you  could 
give  it.  Well,  I  suppose  now  Wethers,  who  made  the 
trouble  by  his  damned  greediness,  has  pulled  out, 
they'll  concentrate  on  Collamer — and  us.  Collamer 
called  me  up  this  morning,  William,  and  told  me 
Wethers  was  dickering;  he'd  get  his  pelt  under 
cover  and  the  whole  pack  would  be  yapping  and 
yarring  on  Collamer's  heels." 

"Well,  the  Association  is  helping  him  and  it  will 
have  to  help  us/'  said  Hopkins. 

"Do  you  mind  explaining  to  me  about  the  Asso 
ciation?"  asked  Johnny;  "you  see,  I'm  a  tender 
foot." 

Hopkins  smiled  soberly.  His  associates  con 
sidered  him  to  have  a  fad  for  clever  young  men; 
in  fact,  to  push  them  too  fast  and  make  too  much 
of  them.  "Gone  daft  over  young  Winslow,"  he 
knew  they  were  whispering  among  the  gray-beards. 
If  they  heard  that  speech  they  would  consider 
him  reckless  to  intrust  great  interests  to  a  tender 
foot.  "The  Association,"  he  explained,  "is  merely 
a  protective  combination  among  manufacturers  in 


412  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

our  lines  to  help  out  each  other  in  case  of  strikes. 
We  don't  entirely  lie  down  and  let  these  gentlemen 
walk  over  us,  though  we  are  pretty  meek.  But  to 
get  back  to  business.  Shall  we  let  this  young  tender 
foot  run  the  men  in,  neighbor?" 

"Can  you  ?"  said  Rivers. 

"Yes,  sir ;  I  think  so,"  said  Johnny.  He  turned  his 
bright  smile,  not  at  the  two  elderly  men  who  were 
gazing  at  him  with  extreme  friendliness  under  their 
brusque  business  manner,  but  at  the  portrait  of  his 
father. 

"Well,  get  busy !"  said  Hopkins ;  "have  Miss  Ed 
gar  in  and  the  correspondence." 

Both  men  looked  after  the  young  fellow  as  he 
passed  out  of  the  door  on  his  errand. 

"Favors  the  old  man  a  lot,"  murmured  Rivers. 


CHAPTER   XII 

AS  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  NOAH 

There  is  no  doubt  of  the  advantages  of  the  min 
gling  of  ages  in  social  functions,  the  old  and  the 
young  and  the  great  middle  classes  of  the  years, 
making  merry  together;  but  how  to  win  these  un 
doubted  benefits  was  beyond  Fairport  until  Dupli 
cate  Whist  went  down  the  best  resident  streets,  like 
scarlet  fever.  After  that,  Peggy  was  as  likely  to 
meet  Mrs.  Winter  at  a  whist  party  as  any  of  her 
young  friends. 

Mrs.  Winter  was  a  whist  player  of  renown.  She 
played  an  heretical  short-suit  game;  but  was 
not  the  less  to  be  dreaded,  since  she  had  learned 
every  painstaking  signal  of  "American  leads"  and 
could  read  her  opponents'  resources  while  she  hid 
her  own.  Were  it  necessary  she  could  play  as  de 
corous  and  conventional  a  game  as  any  one ;  but  she 
was  quite  capable  of  leading  a  singleton,  and  she 
would  sacrifice  an  established  suit  to  a  cross  ruff, 
without  a  qualm. 

"But,"  gently  complained  Miss  Tina  of  the  Mil 
ler  twins,  who  religiously  followed  rules  and  was 
what  is  known  as  a  "safe"  partner,  yet  somehow 
never  won  points,  "but  how  do  you  know  when  to 
do  that  way — or  do  you  just  guess?" 


414  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"I  count/'  replied  Mrs  Winter;  "whist  strategy 
is  only  a  matter  of  arithmetic.  The  long-suit  game 
is  not  inspired.  If  I  can  make  more  tricks  by  a  sneak 
I  make  therm  That's  all." 

"But  it's  so  deceiving  to  your  partner  and  she 
might  be — " 

"She'll  be  much  crosser  if  you  come  out  behind  in 
the  score.  Well,  Miss  Tina,  it  is  time  to  begin." 

Miss  Tina  was  her  partner,  as  it  happened;  and  if 
ever  unmerciful  disaster  followed  fast  and  followed 
faster  on  imprudent  advice,  it  did  in  this  case;  for 
Miss  Tina,  rashly  emboldened,  played  a  wild,  mad, 
passionate  game  of  sneaks  and  false  cards,  relent 
lessly  forcing  her  partner,  who  had  a  suit  of  six  es 
tablished,  and  keeping  her  in  the  dark  about  her  own 
good  suit  with  three  court  cards  at  the  head,  all  of 
which  were  squandered  after  trumps  were  exhaust 
ed  in  Miss  Tina's  mind,  but  unhappily,  not  in  the  ad 
versary's  hand.  The  slaughter  was  so  pathetic  that 
it  is  remembered  to  this  day.  But  Mrs.  Winter  bore 
it  with  a  grim  and  great  composure.  She  had  rea 
son  ;  those  who  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Mrs.  Win 
ter's  rendition  of  Miss  Clementina  playing  the  short- 
suit  game  and  her  final  collapse  were  in  hysterics  of 
laughter ;  it  was  worth  the  five  points  she  lost  on  the 
hand. 

But  poor  Miss  Tina  went  home  and  wept.  Thence 
forward  and  for  ever,  she  forswore  short  leads  in 
whist.  "They  aren't  honest!"  said  Miss  Tina. 
Nevertheless  she  did  not  think  it  Christian  to  be 
angry  with  Mrs.  Winter,  the  cause  of  her  woes,  as 
she  always  felt;  and  she  attended  the  next  meeting 
of  the  Whist  Club  at  Hazelhurst,  Mrs.  Winter's 


AS    IN   THE   DAYS   OF   NOAH  415 

place,  exactly  the  same,  although  with  inward  trem 
ors  and  a  heavy  heart. 

Mrs.  Winslow  was  there,  with  Miss  Margaret 
Rutherford,  and  her  good  fortune  gave  her  that  kind 
young  lady  for  a  partner.  It  further  assisted  her  to 
remember  trumps  correctly,  and  when  the  first  inter 
mission  came  and  the  players  were  refreshed  with 
claret  cup,  Miss  Tina  had  several  points  to  her 
credit.  Conversation,  which  had  been  sternly  sup 
pressed  before,  now  buzzed  on  all  sides.  Peggy 
leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  let  the  various  streams 
of  talk  converge  on  an  indifferent  ear.  She  felt  list 
less  and  worried  and  sad,  that  day.  Quite  without 
reason,  she  knew ;  for,  of  course,  there  was  no  reason 
to  care  that  a  few  days  over  the  usual  week  had 
elapsed  since  Roger  Mack  had  heard  from  Johnny. 
Neither  Peggy  nor  Mrs.  Winslow  knew  of  Johnny's 
return,  as  yet;  for  Hopkins  had  promised  to  say 
nothing.  Peggy,  therefore,  did  not  connect  Johnny 
with  any  of  the  perils  of  the  strike. 

The  talk  went  on  cheerfully  from  various  quar 
ters,  its  subject  varying  with  its  source. 

"No,  I  don't  belong  to  the  Colonial  Dames — 
though  I  could.'' 

"I  don't  think  much  of  the  society,  myself ;  noth 
ing  but  social  function  and  snippy  ways — I  belong 
to  the  Daughters.  There  is  some  sense  to  them — and 
real  patriotism.  They've  put  up  another  tablet  over 
the  river." 

"Did  you  tell  me,  Mary  Bee,  that  your  cook  wants 
a  place  when  you  go  to  Europe  ?" 

"I  haven't  had  a  cook  for  three  weeks,  Elsie,  and 
she  wouldn't  want  a  place  if  I  had.  They  never  seem 


416  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

to  want  places,  now;  they  only  condescend  to  take 
them—" 

"Three  yards,  if  you've  a  careful  dressmaker. 
Three  and  a  half  is  ample.  There  are  some  perfectly 
lovely  taffetas  down  at  Camden's." 

"Yes,  I'm  on  the  committee.  I  suppose  they'll 
take  Decorative  Household  Art." 

"Well,  I  think  we  oughtn't  to  educate  ourselves 
so  heavily.  It's  so  depressing  to  know  how  impos 
sible  light  oak  furniture  is  artistically,  when  you've 
got  three  sets  in  the  house,  and  can't  afford  to  throw 
them  away." 

"Did  you  play  the  seven  before  the  six?  Well,  I 
never  saw  it.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  never  do  see 
trump  signals." 

"Oh,  it  was  no  consequence ;  only  if  you'd  led  out 
trumps  I  could  have  given  you  back  your  diamond, 
and  that  would  have  put  us  three  more  tricks  to  the 
good." 

"Well,  no,  Clara,  I  don't  think  that  when  you  have 
ace,  king,  queen  and  three  small  ones,  you  should 
underplay  your  ace !" 

"She  told  me  distinctly  that  they  were  going  to 
have  an  Easter  sale ;  and  they  would  take  orders  for 
night-gowns.  You  can't  buy  anything  you'd  be  will 
ing  to  wear  ready-made,  except  French,  and  the 
price  is  simply  awful." 

"Well,  you  know,  I'm  pretty  busy  these  days,  with 
Mabel's  wedding  only  a  month  off.  Did  you  know 
poor  Ralph  has  the  measles  ?  He's  nearly  wild." 

"Is  he  so  ill?" 

"No,  he  isn't  even  in  bed ;  but  you  know  they  have 
a  strike  on  at  the  Old  Colony,  and  he  can't  bear  to 


AS   IN   THE   DAYS    OF   NOAH  417 

stay  home.  But  he  has  to.  Mr.  Hopkins  told  him  he 
wouldn't  have  him  give  the  measles  to  all  those  col 
ored  men." 

"They  have  negroes  working?" 

"Yes, — have  them  shut  up  in  the  shops.  That  new 
young  man  they  have  smuggled  them  in  about  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning;  had  the  train  stop  before  it 
got  to  the  depot  and  marched  them  all  in  before  the 
strikers'  pickets  knew  anything  about  it." 

"Well,  it  is  hard  for  Ralph  to  keep  out  of  it  at 
such  an  exciting  time.  He's  so  conscientious.  You 
must  often  think,  Mrs.  Mallory,  what  a  comfort  it 
is  when  you  are  going  to  give  your  daughter  to  his 
keeping,  that  he  is  such  an  honorable,  conscientious 
young  man." 

"I  do  feel  that  way.  And  he's  good-tempered.  All 
the  family  are  good-tempered ;  I  don't  know  as  I  ever 
knew  a  better-tempered  woman  than  his  mother. 
She  was  a  dear  woman.  Do  you  remember  the  lit 
tle  yellow  tomato  preserves  she  used  to  put  up? 
With  ginger.  I  guess  nobody  had  sense  to  get  the 
recipe  while  she  was  alive  and  willing.  And,  now, 
it's  too  late." 

"Why,  no,  I  didn't  read  it.  To  tell  the  truth,  all 
last  week,  I  was  saturated  with  Carlyle's  French 
Revolution.  You've  read  it,  of  course,  Mrs.  Win 
ter.  I  was  talking  with  father  last  night  about  it 
and  he  said  he  supposed  all  through  those  terrible 
days,  the  ordinary  life,  the  buying  and  selling,  and 
marrying  and  having  your  friends  to  dinner  went  on 
quite  the  same." 

"Of  course,  it  did,"  said  Mrs.  Winter.  "And  easy 
enough  to  understand.  We  have  murder  stalking 


418  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

among  us  at  every  labor  conflict ;  do  we  get  excited  ? 
There  is  a  sky-scraper  I  was  in,  in  Chicago,  where 
nine  men  were  killed  and  forty  injured  (more  than 
in  a  battle)  while  it  was  building.  They  had  strikes 
on  every  floor.  Critics  talk  of  life  not  being  dra 
matic,  these  days,  of  its  being  tame;  if  bloodshed 
and  murder  and  sacrifice  and  heartbreak  and  hero 
ism  are  tame,  our  life  is  tame.  Not  otherwise.  I 
drove  down  town  yesterday,  and  saw  the  men  pa 
trolling  every  street  near  the  Old  Colony." 

"Did  they  stop  your  carriage?" 

"No;  why  should  they?  I'm  not  a  scab.  They 
don't  stop  Mr.  Hopkins  or  Mr.  Rivers.  Any  poor 
workman  under  them  who  tried  to  step  in  and  earn 
a  few  dollars  for  his  family  would  risk  his  bones  if 
not  his  life ;  but  the  head  man  they  are  fighting  never 
is  molested.  It  is  the  same  way  with  the  departments 
that  haven't  been  ordered  out,  the  painters  and 
blacksmiths  and  foundry  men ;  they  go  by  cheerfully 
with  their  dinner-pails." 

"They  say  the  strike's  hurting  business  a  great 
deal.  And  if  it  spreads,  as  the  walking  delegate 
who's  running  it  threatens,  it  will  be  a  bad  thing. 
He  says  maybe  he'll  tie  up  the  arsenal." 

"Good  gracious !  Why  ?  Mrs.  Winter,  I  will ;  the 
claret  cup  is  delicious." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know ;  they  buy  some  things  from  the 
Old  Colony  or  the  Edgewater  or  whatever.  These 
labor  things  are  awfully  mixed  up  in  my  mind." 

Several  ladies  had  drawn  near  the  table  where 
Mrs.  Winter  sat,  looking  her  handsomest  in  black 
velvet  and  lace  and  wearing  her  famous  rubies. 
There  were  pink  ribbons  in  her  lace  cap  which 


AS   IN   THE   DAYS   OF   NOAH 


419 


matched  a  roseleaf  flush  in  her  delicate  cheek,  and 
her  eyes  flashed  like  the  jewels  in  her  rings  as  her 
hands  moved  in  quick  Southern  gestures. 

"They  seem  to  be  in  most  people's  minds,"  said 
she  scornfully. 

"Well,  7  believe  in  arbitration,"  explained  a  tall 
lady  with  a  Roman  nose.  "Mrs.  Winter,  I  don't 
want  to  criticize,  but  can't  we  women  do  something 
to  stop  this  fearful  strike?  If  we  add  our  pleadings 
to  those  of  the  clergy,  won't  Mr.  Hopkins  and  Mr. 
Rivers  listen?  If  you  and  Mrs.  Winslow — " 

"I  and  Mrs.  Winslow?"  began  Mrs.  Winter  in  a 
freezing  tone ;  then  her  eye  took  in  her  stately  rooms 
in  their  new  Empire  dressing;  she  bethought  herself 
that  she  was  in  her  own  house,  and  smiled  gracious 
ly.  "My  dear  Mrs.  Weekham,  you  forget  we  are 
your  friends,  the  enemy, — the  Old  Colony's  loss  is 
our  loss ;  the  Old  Colony  strike  hits  us." 

"Ah,  then,  all  the  more,  dear  madam,  the  better 
right  you  have  to  stop  this  most  awful  struggle. 
There  are  two  strikers'  families  live  opposite  us, 
down  in  the  ravine  on  St.  Katharine  Street ;  I  don't 
suppose  they've  had  a  good  meal  for  a  week !  I  send 
them  in  skim  milk  every  day,  and  in  fact  I  tell  Nan 
nie  to  give  them  anything  we've  left  over.  And 
they're  only  two  families  out  of  how  many?  I'm 
told  the  clergy  went  in  a  body  to  Mr.  Hopkins  this 
morning  to  beg  him  to  arbitrate." 

"They  did,"  said  Mrs.  Winter;  "and  shall  I  tell 
you  what  he  said  ?  He  said,  'We  can't  arbitrate  our 
contracts.  The  only  thing  to  be  done  with  a  contract 
is  to  keep  it.'  I  suppose  I'm  only  an  unprincipled 
aristocrat;  but  I  thought  that  rather  neat.  You  so- 


420  THE   MAN   OF  THE   HOUR 

cial  reformers  seem  to  think  you  can  put  the  ten 
commandments  to  vote  any  time  they  bother  you. 
But  I  disagree  with  you  there.  You  can't  arbitrate 
your  word,  as  Mr.  Hopkins  says." 

"Did  you  hear,  Mrs.  Winter," — Emma  Winslow 
spoke  quietly,  but  every  one  stopped  to  listen — "they 
have  fallen  upon  another  poor  man  ?  He  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  Old  Colony,  but  they  wouldn't  be 
lieve  him.  They  fractured  his  skull  and  kicked  and 
beat  him  so  the  doctors  think  he  will  die.  He's  at 
St.  Margaret's  Hospital." 

"And  some  people  wonder  at  life  going  on  at  the 
time  of  the  French  Revolution !"  said  Mrs.  Winter. 

"But  we  haven't  any  people  in  whom  we  are  in 
terested,"  a  young  girl  ventured,  and  instantly 
blushed  at  her  boldness;  "that  would  make  all  the 
difference.  Of  course  it's  very  pitiful,  the  poor  peo 
ple  suffering  so,  but  it's  not  like  your  own — " 

"Well,  it  will  come  uncommonly  near  my  own," 
spoke  up  the  mother  of  Mabel,  who  was  to  marry 
the  superintendent  of  the  Old  Colony,  "if  things  get 
worse  and  there's  a  fight  and  they  bring  home  Ralph 
Holman  all  beaten  to  a  pulp." 

"I  don't,  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow,  "feel  so  ab 
solutely  secure  that  no  harm  may  come  to  my  father. 
You  see,  I  am  not  so  used  to  strikes.  The  Old  Col 
ony  never  had  one  before.  My  poor  father  used  to 
be  so  proud  of  it." 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  ventured  another  in 
quirer,  "what  makes  the  men  so  bitter.  They  really 
haven't  any  special  grievance,  at  least  they  hadn't 
at  first — I  understand  they  have  injected  some  ques 
tions  of  wages  and  hours  since — but,  at  first,  it  was 


AS    IN    THE   DAYS   OF   NOAH  421 

simply  a  strike  because  the  Old  Colony  sold  goods  to 
Collins,  or  some  such  name,  in  Chicago.  Why  should 
the  men  get  so  angry  and  furious  about  that  ?" 

"Because  they're  fighting,  my  dear,"  answered 
Mrs.  Winter;  "just  fight  any  one  for  three  weeks 
and  I  reckon  you  will  get  bitter,  however  trivial  the 
cause  of  the  scrimmage.  Besides,  as  I  understand, 
the  machinists'  leader,  Taylor — what  is  it,  Emma? 
Oh,  yes,  Tyler.  Tyler  is  a  storm  king.  He  throws  oil 
on  the  fire.  He  gets  the  men  to  fighting.  He  has 
brass  bands  and  meetings  and  processions  and  keeps 
the  air  full  of  electricity." 

"Where  does  he  get  his  money?" 

"Oh,  all  the  labor  unions  help  him  a  little  bit,  some 
from  fear,  some  from  policy,  and  some  from  friend 
liness.  But  I  think  his  supplies  are  running  low. 
Shall  we  go  back  to  the  game,  ladies  ?" 

Little  Miss  Tina  had  listened  eagerly,  but  said 
nothing.  She  turned  to  Peggy.  "I  hope  Mrs.  Wins- 
low  and  you  realize  where  sister  and  my  sympathies 
are,  Miss  Rutherford.  We  feel  as  if  expression — we 
can't  quite  express.  And  we  have  a — a  kind  of 
stake,  I  may  say — I  mean  not  holding  stock  so  much, 
although  sister  Ally  has  six  shares  of  the  common, 
and  I  have  sixteen,  Miss  Rutherford,  and  we  always 
bring  our  proxies  down  ourselves  to  Mr.  Hopkins. 
He  says  we  needn't,  but  the  mail  isn't  always — but  I 
don't  mean  that.  We  know  some  one,  the  very  nicest 
young  man,  sister  Ally  and  I  and  cousin  often  say 
we  ever  .knew,  except — of  course,  poor  dear  Rufus 
Goddard,  who  was  betrothed  to  Ally  and  died.  I 
guess  you  have  heard  of  him,  a  very  promising 
young  man — Mr.  Gleason's  ways  so  often  remind 


422  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

us  of  him,  though  he  isn't  like  him  in  physique,  for 
Rufus  was  rather  short  and  very  blond,  while  Mr. 
Gleason  must  be  six  feet,  and  dark  eyes  and  hair. 
But  we  certainly  have  grown  to  esteem  Mr.  Gleason 
very  highly  and  a — a  nephew  couldn't  be  kinder.  So 
we  do  feel  worried  about  him ;  and  sister  Ally  and  I 
used  to  watch  for  his  car — you  feel  better  to  know 
any  one's  safe  home  at  night,  and  safe  in — " 

"To  be  sure,"  Peggy  agreed  politely,  when  she 
was  sure  Miss  Tina  had  modestly  abandoned  her 
sentence.  "Is  Mr.  Gleason  in  the  Old  Colony?  I 
don't  remember  the  name." 

"Not  regularly,  Miss  Rutherford,  not  as  a  general 
thing;  he  is  the  superintendent  of  the  Open  Hearth 
— isn't  that,  somehow,  such  a  pleasant,  hospitable 
sounding  name,  Miss  Rutherford? — over  at  the 
Edgewater,  but  they  have  loaned  him  to  the  Old 
Colony  through  this  strike,  someway,  I  don't  under 
stand  quite  how ;  but  they  have — and  we  can't  help 
feeling  anxious  about  him,  especially  since  he  has 
taken  to  staying  all  night  in  the  shops.  Mrs.  Delaney 
is  frightened,  too,  I  can  see  it — what  say  ?" 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Peggy,  "I  dropped  my  cards. 
Who  is  Mrs.  Delaney, — Mr.  Gleason's  mother-in- 
law?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no ;  he  isn't  married ;  she's  no  relation ; 
indeed,  although  a  very  worthy,  respectable  woman, 
— oh,  very,  she  is  not — not  at  all — Mr.  Gleason  is 
very  much  of  a  gentleman.  Sister  and  I  both  saw 
that  when  he  was  working  with  his  hands,  for  he 
rose  from  the  ranks ;  but  he  is  an  educated  man ;  and 
Thyrza  says  he  sings  a  Latin  song.  I  asked  her  how 
she  knew  and  she  said  she  asked  him  if  it  was  Ital- 


AS    IN   THE   DAYS   OF   NOAH  423 

ian  (Dago,  the  poor  child  calls  it;  they  used  to  live 
in  Chicago,  in  rather  a  poor  neighborhood,  I  infer; 
I  know  Amelia  Ann  said  it  was  fierce) — where — 
oh,  yes,  excuse  my  rambling ;  he  told  her  no,  it  was 
Latin.  Oh,  are  they  beginning  to  play?" 

And  the  game  began  again. 

Mrs.  Winter  glided  up  behind  Peggy  to  watch  her 
play.  After  the  game  was  over  there  were  coffee  and 
chocolate  and  cakes,  beaten  biscuit  and  salad  and 
hot  pates  and  ice-cream ;  Mrs.  Winter  kept  to  her  old 
bountiful  fashion  of  an  afternoon  meal.  "There 
isn't  a  quarter  of  them  have  late  dinners,"  said  she, 
"and  your  lemonade  tea  and  hopes  of  a  sandwich 
and  fairy  gingerbread  only  spoil  their  supper  with 
out  taking  the  place  of  it, — why  not  give  them  a 
good  meal?" 

Mrs.  Winter  looked  over  the  table,  splendid  with 
the  Winter  plate;  and  the  great  black  sideboard, 
more  resplendent  still ;  and  her  eyes  ran  around  the 
animated  and  cheerful  faces.  She  smiled  subtly  to 
herself,  and  let  the  smile  extend  to  Peggy,  at  her  el 
bow. 

"I  suppose,"  said  she,  "that  up  on  the  hills  there 
are  plenty  of  women  making  a  fire  for  supper  with 
as  little  wood  or  coal  as  they  can  use,  and  wonder 
ing,  maybe,  where  to-morrow's  supper  is  to  come 
from ;  and  down  below  the  railroad,  in  the  saloons 
or  at  their  rented  headquarters,  the  men  are  plotting 
battle  and  maybe  murder;  and  we" — she  flirted  up 
ward  the  palms  of  her  little,  flashing  hands — "well, 
it  was  so  in  the  time  of  Noah,  in  the  days  before  the 
French  Revolution,  in  the  days  after ;  it  will  always 
be  so.  Life  is  too  big  to  care." 


424  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"I  dare  say/'  said  Peggy  absently. 

Mrs.  Winter  gave  her  one  of  the  glances  which 
Peggy  nicknamed  to  Johnny  her  "circular-saw 
looks"  because,  she  said,  they  seemed  to  go  clear 
through  and  rip  up  one's  innermost  thoughts. 

"Peggy,"  said  Mrs.  Winter,  "I  don't  think  I  ever 
saw  you  play  quite  such  a  casual  game,  as  you  did 
this  afternoon;  I  should  think  your  mind  had  had  a 
stroke!" 

Peggy  slipped  her  round,  strong,  young  arm  about 
the  little  waist  and  whispered : 

"Oh,  Cousin  Rebecca,  I  don't  care,  I  don't  care 
about  the  days  of  Noah  either ;  maybe  I  ought,  but  I 
don't !  Cousin  Rebecca,  Johnny's  come  back;  he's  in 
the  Old  Colony;  he  has  come  to  his  own  again!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN    THE    CAMP    OF   THE   ENEMY 

On  the  same  afternoon  that  Mrs.  Winter  enter 
tained  the  Whist  Club,  Mr.  Walter  Tyler  had  his 
feet  under  a  table  in  a  room  of  Burkholm  Hall,  with 
an  open  box  of  cigars  and  some  schooners  of  beer 
to  ease  the  cares  of  counsel,  and  four  of  the  execu 
tive  committee  of  the  Old  Colony  strikers  were 
grouped  about  him.  The  details  of  the  conference 
the  writer  obtained  from  Billy  Bates.  How  did  he 
obtain  them?  Any  frank  answer  to  this  question 
might  imperil  his  sources  of  information.  Enough 
that  he  controlled  them. 

When  these  helps  from  Billy  allowed  me  to  see 
the  committee-room,  Tyler  was  summing  up  the 
situation  after  three  weeks'  warfare. 

"The  pickets  warming  up?"  said  Tyler. 

"They're  hard  propositions,"  was  the  answer ;  "I 
never  saw  such  snowbanks.  Couldn't  rouse  'em 
worth  a  cent.  Let  one  feller  git  'most  into  the  alley 
just  because  he'd  some  hard-luck  story  'bout  a  sick 
boy  he  was  trying  to  send  to  Colorado.  I  had  to 
knock  him  down  before  I  got  him  to  see  we  was  his 
true  friends." 

"Guess  it's  the  same  man  I  caught  trying  to  sneak 
by  as  a  bench  molder.  He's  had  two  sons  die  of 

425 


426  THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 

consumption  and  he's  kinder  looney.  I  told  him 
we'd  give  him  a  lift  and  started  him  with  ten  dol 
lars." 

The  offer  was  like  Tyler.  He  was  always  free 
with  his  money,  or  any  one's  else  money  on  which 
he  could  lay  hands,  and  this  debonair  generosity  and 
a  certain  rough  sympathy  for  distress  immediately 
under  his  eyes  increased  his  hold  on  his  following. 
Now  he  was  working  at  his  very  best,  his  temper 
well  in  leash,  and  his  wits  sharpened  to  a  cutting 
edge.  He  perfectly  understood  the  average  con 
servative  mechanic  who  resembles  the  average  con 
servative  citizen,  fearing  to  lead,  and  only  daring  to 
follow  in  a  crowd, — in  short,  possessing  the  coward 
ice  of  his  opinions.  Tyler  had  played  on  their  fears 
all  his  life  as  a  labor  politician.  He  himself  followed 
the  advice  which  stared  at  Britomart  from  the  walls 
of  the  Enchanted  Palace :  "Be  bold !  Be  bold,  and 
evermore  be  bold !"  He  knew  nothing  of  the  inner 
room  and  the  final  word,  "Be  not  too  bold!"  His 
policy  was  to  stir  up  his  men  to  fury.  Anger  is  a 
contagious  passion.  There  were  too  many  people 
about  asking  why  were  they  striking,  anyhow?  ar 
gued  Tyler.  Once  get  the  men  fighting  over  any  old 
thing,  they  would  not  be  so  captious  about  griev 
ances.  Grievances  indeed?  they  had  plenty;  what 
did  they  want  more  for  ? 

So  Tyler  had  had  meetings  and  parades  and 
pickets  watching  the  plant  and  turning  back  the 
workmen;  and  he  talked  at  every  street-corner 
about  the  power  of  the  labor  vote  until  the  mayor 
could  not  sleep  nights,  and  the  chief  of  police  told 
his  men  not  to  be  too  rough  with  the  strikers;  the 


IN   THE   CAMP   OF   THE   ENEMY  427 

Old  Colony  was  more  to  blame  than  they,  import 
ing  niggers  and  toughs,  instead  of  waiting.  Those 
strike-breakers  better  not  be  too  fresh!  They'd  ar 
rest  'em  for  carrying  concealed  weapons. 

This  very  thing  was  done.  One  of  the  strike 
breakers,  who  had  gone  into  town  to  see  his  sick 
sister,  was  set  upon  by  a  crowd  of  city  hoodlums, 
led  by  a  striker.  He  was  hit  by  a  brick  and,  to  save 
his  bones,  pulled  out  a  revolver,  with  which  he  held 
the  crowd  at  bay,  retreating  all  the  time,  until  he 
was  rescued  by  Johnny  Winslow  in  Mr.  Rivers' 
buggy.  The  policeman,  who  saw  the  affair,  made 
no  move  to  save  him,  but  arrested  him  on  the  con 
cealed  weapon  charge  as  soon  as  he  was  safe.  The 
company  gave  bail  for  his  appearance.  Such  petty 
annoyances  were  worked  at  every  turn.  And  the 
whole  power  of  that  odious  word,  which  working- 
men  fear  more  than  sin  or  starvation,  was  invoked 
to  guard  the  road  to  the  shops. 

"Yes,  the  pickets  are  getting  half  worth  some 
thing,"  said  Tyler. 

"I  don't  call  'em  worth  much  yesterday  night," 
growled  one  of  the  committee. 

"How's  that?" 

"Why,  some  kind  of  a  fakir  got  the  boys  listening 
to  his  patter  and,  by  hell!  a  whole  lot  of  fellows 
come  a-walking  down  the  alley  six  abreast  with  that 
—  Gleason  at  the  head,  and  they  made  a  kind  of  V 
and  just  simply  rushed  the  boys.  They  didn't  git 
any  show  at  all." 

Tyler  swore  a  minute. 

"Worst  is,  I  guess  they  were  fellers  in  town, 
sneaking  in  under  cover." 


428  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

"The  hell  they  were!"  Tyler  expressed  his  opin 
ion  of  the  workingmen  of  Fairport  in  vitriolic 
terms,  which  Billy  took  care,  later,  should  come  to 
every  ear. 

"I  can  go  you  one  better/'  said  another  man, 
coming  out  of  a  cloud  of  smoke,  "'bout  that  Glea- 
son.  You  know  this  morning  when  those  guys  from 
the  churches  and  the  Business  Men's  Association 
went  with  our  play  for  position,  that  arbitration 
offer?" 

"Well?" 

"He  had  the  nerve  to  run  in  a  dozen  wood-work 
ers  in  hacks  with  that  there  crowd  of  goozoos." 

"How'd  he  do  that?  I  saw  the  hacks  come  back 
myself,"  cried  a  man  who  had  been  on  the  pickets. 

"Easy.  The  boys  were  all  dressed  up  in  their 
Sunday  clothes  and  you  took  'em  for  bankers.  The 
hacks  took  back  the  real  jays,  and  you  didn't  notice 
there  were  two  or  three  instid  of  four  in  a  carriage." 

"Ain't  he  slick?"  chuckled  a  young  committee- 
man.  He  was  a  foolish  youngster  who  did  not  know 
how  to  restrain  his  feelings,  and  was  suspected  to 
be  growing  lukewarm. 

"He  thinks  he  is,"  sneered  Tyler;  "he,  maybe, 
won't  be  so  satisfied  with  himself  before  he  gets 
through." 

"Billy  Bates  turned  up  yesterday,"  said  the  first 
speaker.  "I  guess  that  ends  any  chance  of  our  get- 
tin'  the  molders  out  this  time." 

"Damn  Billy  Bates !"  Tyler  swore  savagely ;  "and 
damn  that  molasses-blooded  president  of  the  labor 
council,  Harry  Leroy ;  you'd  think  he  was  a  corpora 
tion  lap-dog  to  hear  him  whining  about  keeping  the 


IN   THE   CAMP   OF   THE   ENEMY  429 

men  orderly.  I  tell  you  the  unions  will  never  run 
the  whole  shooting  match  as  they  can,  until  we 
squeeze  out  such  rotten  snakes." 

"That's  right !"  chanted  the  two  satellites  of  Ty 
ler  on  the  committee. 

"Who  made  that  driveling  motion  not  to  give  any 
strike  wages  to  anybody  with  money  in  the  savings 
bank?" 

"I  know,"  said  the  young  committee-man;  "it 
was  Ellison,  one  of  the  machinists." 

"I  bet  he  got  egged  on  to  it  by  Bates,  then." 

"Well,  he  was  talking  to  Bates." 

Tyler  swore  vituperatively.  He  asked  the  young 
man  why  he  kept  such  white  innocence  as  his  on 
earth — Heaven  was  his  home.  Couldn't  he  see — 
swinging  furiously  out  of  sarcasm  into  direct  brutal 
ity — that  if  the  motion  had  carried,  which  it  was 
damn  near  doing,  all  the  savings-bank  men  would 
begin  kicking?  "That's  it!  That's  it!"  he  cried, 
clenching  his  fists,  foaming  and  almost  sobbing  be 
tween  rage  and  liquor;  "you're  all  asleep!  You're 
letting  Billy,  who  is  the  very  scholar  of  the  devil  for 
dirty,  lying  cowardly  tricks,  jest  make  bad  blood 
all  the  time !"  Thus  he  raged  and  taunted. 

But  he  was  not  so  wrought  upon  by  his  rage  that 
he  lost  his  prudence.  His  secret  plans  he  kept  for 
other  ears  than  the  committee.  He  and  they,  how 
ever,  realized  that  the  strike  had  reached  a  critical 
stage.  Disintegration,  once  fairly  started,  gets  the 
men  into  a  panic  which  may  be  as  contagious  as  the 
strike-fever  which  it  cures.  And  disintegration  was 
beginning. 

He  knew  that  it  had  been  all  that  his  influence 


430  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

and  his  bitter  tongue  and  the  fear  of  him  could  do 
to  hold  the  men  firm  at  the  last  meeting;  he  dared 
not  chance  another.  He  knew,  furthermore,  that  the 
letters  he  was  receiving  from  the  higher  officials  of 
his  own  union  would  make  cheerful  reading  to  Billy 
Bates,  whom  he  cursed  for  inciting  them.  The 
others  were  even  beginning  to  suspect  that  the  Fair- 
port  end  of  the  strike  was  waged  to  gratify  private 
animosities  of  Tyler's  own.  Tyler  foresaw  that  only 
success,  and  success  at  once,  could  save  him  from 
being  quietly  pushed  out  of  the  machinists'  union, 
in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  socialist  wing. 

"It's  a  fight  to  a  finish,  by  God !"  he  swore.  Since 
the  Fairport  white-livered  cowards  wouldn't  help 
him,  he  would  find  his  help  elsewhere ;  but  there  was 
nothing  mean  about  him;  he'd  let  the  Fairport 
sneaks  get  all  the  credit  of  doing  something  worth 
while ! 

"It's  up  to  us  to  do  something,"  growled  Tyler 
to  the  man  of  the  pickets  whom  he  trusted  most, 
after  he  had  fully  collated  the  gallsome  reports  of 
the  week ;  "we  have  got  to  make  a  ten-strike !" 

The  man's  mouth  sagged  at  the  corners.  "How?" 
said  he. 

"You  leave  that  to  me,  Brother  Finn,"  said  Ty 
ler. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

EXTRACTS  FROM  JOHNNY^S  LETTERS  TO  ROGER  MACK 

Dear  Roger : — 

Let  up  a  little !  I  didn't  know  what  was  the  wisest 
or  the  kindest  way  to  do.  You  know  I  am  always 
too  impetuous,  acting  in  haste  and  repenting  at 
leisure, — I  wanted  to  think  this  over.  Don't  jump 
on  a  penitent  sinner!  And  don't  look  me  up,  just 
yet,  if  you  please. 

The  poor  fellow  at  the  hospital  has  regained  his 
senses  enough  to  tell  the  story  of  his  hard  luck.  He 
was  attacked  on  his  way  from  the  train.  He  protest 
ed  he  wasn't  a  scab,  he  wasn't  going  to  work  in  town 
at  all,  but  a  hammer  fell  out  of  his  pocket,  and  then 
they  nearly  murdered  him.  Some  of  our  men  found 
him  on  the  railway  embankment  just  below  the 
depot.  You  can  guess  who  did  it.  But  which  one,  or, 
rather,  which  two  or  three  or  four  ?  I  think  I  have  a 
clue.  Four  of  the  strikers  were  seen  on  the  railway. 
One  of  them  was  a  Finn  whose  name  no  one  knows, 
but  he  is  called  Adam  Finn.  He  is  so  nicknamed  be 
cause  he  was  continually  saying :  "I  don't  like  you  a 
damn !"  He  is  a  sulky  sort  when  sober,  and  a  bloody 
maniac  when  drunk.  And  he  is  left-handed.  The 
hammer  wounds  seem  (so  the  doctors  say)  to  have 


432  THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 

been  made  by  a  left-handed  man.    As  to  the  other 
three,  we'll  find  them. 

We  are  making  a  sort  of  slogan  of  Hopkins' 
words :  "We  can't  arbitrate  our  contracts/'  I  think 
the  people,  generally,  are  getting  at  the  real  facts. 
Tyler  got  their  ear  at  first.  The  shopkeepers  natu 
rally  took  fright  at  a  loss  of  custom.  The  business 
men  hate  strikes  as  they  hate  bad  crops  or  contagious 
disease ;  all  hurt  business.  They  want  to  stamp  them 
all  out  quickly  and  get  to  making  money  again.  And 
they  don't  ask  too  many  questions  about  the  rights 
of  the  matter.  But  as  Billy  says,  "Wrong  things  are 
almost  always  too  expensive  to  be  tolerated  very 
long."  We  don't  find  out  their  cost  because  it  is  in 
direct,  but  we  pay  it  just  the  same.  Formerly  the 
employers  were  tyrannical  and  ate  up  the  poor  as  it 
were  bread ;  some  of  them  still  are — when  they  dare. 
Thanks  to  the  unions,  they  don't  often  dare !  They 
have  learned  it  costs  too  much  to  skin  their  men  per 
sistently.  It  would  cost  too  much,  anyhow,  for  a 
man  on  starvation  wages  can't  do  his  best;  and  we 
want  his  best.  But,  to-day,  the  union  is  the  stronger 
and  it  often  is  a  tyrant.  I  think  we  are  a  case  in 
point ;  so  does  Billy.  Billy  is  the  best  ever ! 

The  poor  fellow  at  the  hospital  may  die.  The 
doctors  can't  tell.  Was  there  ever  such  irony  of 
fate !  He  isn't  a  machinist,  but  a  union  molder,  sec 
retary  of  a  local  in  Illinois.  The  molders  were  going 
to  send  the  strikers  $300,  but  Billy  feels  now  that 
he  can't  encourage  such  a  gift  until  the  cloud  is  off 
the  machinists'  fair  name;  while  as  to  striking  for 


JOHNNY'S    LETTERS    TO    ROGER    MACK     433 

such  fellows,  that's  out  of  the  question!   Good  old 
Billy! 

Of  course,  Machinists'  Union  No.  183  met  and 
denounced  the  assault  as  opposed  to  the  "peaceful 
methods  which  they  have  always  advocated."  I  like 
that,  don't  you?  And  I  suppose  you  observed  that 
Brother  Adam  Finn  moved  to  offer  a  reward  of 
$25  for  the  information  leading  to  the  arrest  and 
conviction  of  the  "miscreants."  There's  cold  nerve 
for  you.  Tyler  is  sure  that  the  assault  was  com 
mitted  by  strike-breakers  in  order  to  cast  odium  on 
the  machinists'  union.  According  to  Tyler  such  at 
tacks  are  always  planned  by  employers  to  get  pre 
texts  for  calling  out  the  militia  and  "crushing  la 
bor." 

The  poor  fellow  at  St.  Margaret's  is  better;  he 
will  get  well.  I  wish  you'd  ask  Miss  Rutherford  to 
send  him  some  home  things.  He  has  described  his 
assailants,  and  we've  got  Finn  nailed,  I  hope.  Of 
course,  he'll  be  bailed  out. 

Roger,  you  are  quite  mistaken.  I  run  no  danger. 
I  don't  go  home,  now.  I  tremble  when  I  think  of 
how  Amelia  Ann  may  be  straining  Mrs.  Delaney's 
patience.  Mark  Delaney  is  a  molder  here,  so  far  un 
molested,  for  they  don't  interfere  as  yet  with  the 
other  departments;  and  he  says  Amelia  Ann  has 
bargained  with  Thyrza  to  do  her  mending;  in  re 
turn  Thyrza  will  be  allowed  to  ride  Ally  as  soon  as 
I  permit.  So  I  hope  the  horse  is  keeping  her  straight. 

She  really  is  trying  to  be  good.  She  made  a  pie 
for  me  yesterday,  poor  child!  And  I  ate  it!  I 


434  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

couldn't  say  it  was  good,  and  I  wanted  to  say  some 
thing  encouraging,  so  I  ate  the  truck,  cooked  and 
uncooked  (I  never  did  like  underdone  pastry!),  and 
told  her  she  had  pleased  me  very  much,  and  I  had 
eaten  every  crumb.  But  "what  a  tangled  web  we 
weave,"  and  so  forth.  She  is  going  to  make  an 
other  ! 

I  assure  you,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  cradled  in  Ro 
man  luxury.  I  have  fine  food — except  when  poor, 
dear  Amelia  Ann's  affection  makes  a  culinary  spurt ! 
I  have  a  porcelain  tub  in  the  office.  ( Bless  Hopkins 
for  his  passion  for  bathing!)  Think  of  that!  Do 
you  know  how  long  since  I  have  -stepped  into  a 
porcelain  tub  ? 

The  darkies  amuse  me.  They  take  the  confinement 
very  cheerfully.  Play  cards  and  craps.  I  tell  them 
stories.  And  do  you  know  what  they  like  best  ?  The 
Bible  and  Homer.  I  don't  know  how  many  Penel 
opes  and  Helens  and  A j axes  and  Calypsos  I  shall 
have  on  my  conscience,  when  they  go  home  to  the 
"right  new  babies"  they  tell  about.  One  of  them  is 
going  to  take  Cassandra  May  for  his.  "I  ben  goin' 
to  take  'Oh  my'  but  now  I'll  take  this  heah,"  says 
he.  "Oh  my !"  I  repeated  stupidly. 

"Yes,  boss.  Doesn't  you  'member  dat  ar  ole  Bible 
Oh  my,  de  mudder  of  Rufe?"  Naomi,  Roger;  if 
you  please. 

The  head  strike-breaker  is  an  interesting  personal 
ity  (as  we  used  to  say  in  Harvard,  where  they  are 
always  discussing  Personality  with  awe  and  a  cap 
ital  P).  He  is  a  simon-pure  Vermont  Yankee.  He 


JOHNNY'S   LETTERS   TO   ROGER   MACK     435 

belonged  to  a  union  in  some  Eastern  state.  They 
went  on  a  strike,  the  strike  failed  and  the  union 
washed  its  hands  of  him  later,  when  he  couldn't  pay 
the  dues.  I  don't  understand.  Usually  they  are 
very  lenient  in  such  cases.  He  had  exhausted  his 
savings  in  the  strike.  Finally  he  got  a  good  job, 
but  he  didn't  try  to  get  reinstated  in  the  union. 
There  was  trouble  between  him  and  some  of  the  la 
bor  politicians,  which  ended  in  a  fight.  That  was 
how  he  got  his  curious  scar — from  a  cold  chisel. 
His  son  tried  to  help  him,  just  a  mere  slip  of  a  boy, 
and  he  was  killed  by  a  chance  blow.  Matthew  hates 
the  unions.  He  is  bitter,  not  in  any  vituperative 
fashion,  he  is  the  stillest  man  I  ever  saw;  but  he 
never  lets  up.  I  don't  know  how  many  fights  he  has 
seen.  He  risks  his  life  for  the  fun  of  it,  he  says. 
He  and  I  have  funny  arguments  about  the  unions. 
I  hope  to  convert  him  'and  switch  him  on  to  a  better 
life.  Tyler  and  he  are  sworn  enemies.  He  has  a 
funny  little  volume  of  Poe  which  he  carries  around 
with  him  and  reads  at  intervals,  and  he  knows  Burns 
by  heart.  When  he  has  any  spare  time  he  plays  on 
the  accordion.  He  has  a  grand  one  with  him.  And 
the  coons  flock  round  him  like  flies  round  molasses. 

The  trouble  in  getting  food  for  our  strike-break 
ers  has  not  been  so  bad  as  Tyler  wishes.  He  started 
round,  betimes,  to  warn  off  butchers,  bakers  and 
candlestick  makers;  but  we  simply  had  the  things 
sent  in  the  original  package  style  of  prohibitory 
states  to  the  express  office,  and  sent  an  armed  escort 
to  get  them,  made  up  of  our  own  police,  special  dep 
uties,  duly  sworn  in.  The  mayor  had  to  let  us  have 


436  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

them.  He  didn't  want  to,  crawling  demagogue  that 
he  is !  but  we  simply  cowed  him.  We  hadn't  a  bit  of 
trouble.  And  as  Tyler  can't  find  out  who  sells  us 
the  stuff,  he  can't  boycott  anybody.  Naturally,  we 
sometimes  take  in  a  few  men  with  our  hams  and 
loaves  and  meat  and  candy.  Yes,  candy.  Tobacco, 
too.  And  sometimes  kegs  of  beer.  The  darkies  are  as 
fond  of  candy  as  of  beer.  And  they  dote  on  trials  of 
strength  and  such  things.  But  you  know  all  that, 
you  Southern  fire-eater.  I  have  been  surprised  that 
they  don't  chafe  more  under  their  imprisonment. 
Our  output  this  week  is  almost  two-thirds  what  it 
should  be.  Pretty  good  for  new  hands ! 

This  morning  occurred  a  nasty  thing.  Some  one 
put  poison  in  the  big  well  from  which  we  get  all  our 
washing  water.  Since  the  strike  we  have  issued 
strict  orders  that  only  the  water  out  of  the  carboys 
should  be  drunk.  This  from  no  fear  of  poisoning, 
but  because  the  well  gets  too  much  miscellaneous 
seeping  in  this  belt  of  manufacturing  shops.  Of 
course,  there  was  the  usual  idiot  to  disregard  orders 
and  drink  out  of  a  faucet.  Poor  fellow !  he  paid  for 
it.  The  doctor  pumped  him  out  and  he  had  the  time 
of  his  life.  It  was  fierce!  After  that  we  analyzed  the 
water.  There's  no  doubt  of  it.  The  well  was  poi 
soned.  I  don't  accuse  Tyler,  and  assuredly  our  old 
men  wouldn't  stoop  to  such  a  Dago  trick;  but  the 
rancor  runs  so  high  that  all  sorts  of  outside  riffraff 
have  been  welcomed  in.  Every  city  has  its  loathsome 
undercurrent.  The  fiend  who  tried  to  do  this  may 
have  belonged  here  or  been  imported.  Who  knows  ? 
The  men  were  less  affected  than  you  would  think. 


JOHNNY'S   LETTERS   TO   ROGER   MACK     437 

The  strike-breakers  took  it  as  a  part  of  the  business, 
and  the  blacks  take  my  word  for  their  safety. 

Tolstoi  is  a  great  soul,  a  vast  soul ;  like  Russia  in 
both  these  qualities,  and  like  Russia,  furthermore,  in 
his  formlessness  and  his  carelessness  for  the  detail 
of  result,  once  assured  his  principle  is  right.  Yet  it 
is  these  details,  these  minor  things  that  decide 
whether  a  reform  shall  be  successful.  He  has  no 
working  plan,  ever.  The  Anglo-Saxon  always 
strikes  for  a  working  plan  first.  He  always  demands 
the  works  without  which  faith  is  dead.  I  used  to 
worship  Tolstoi;  I  shall  always  admire  him,  love 
him  and  infinitely  respect  him;  but  I  can't  follow 
him  any  more.  Sometimes  I  almost  agree  with 
Billy's  irreverent  and  not  at  all  refined  comment — 
after  he  had  conscientiously  read  War  and  Peace 
and  My  Religion— "That  fellow,"  says  Billy,  "has 
bitten  off  more  than  he  can  chew." 

Well,  Roger,  whether  he's  right  about  Tolstoi  or 
not,  he  is  right  about  a  very  humble  young  fool  who 
is  writing  to  you.  There  are  some  problems  in  this 
universe  too  big  for  any  one  man,  I  almost  had  said 
any  one  generation,  to  tackle.  They  can't  be  solved 
by  machinery.  They  have  to  grow  out  of  their 
tangle.  All  that  can  be  done  is  to  start  the  growing 
right  and  tend  it  patiently.  You  can't  make  a  tree 
in  a  minute.  But  unhappily  you  can  blow  one  up 
with  dynamite  and  destroy  it  in  a  minute  easy !  To 
me  that  is  the  awfulest  thing  I  know;  how  slow  is 
growth  and  how  swift  destruction ! 

There  are  times  when  I  understand  how  a  man 
might  go  crazy  merely  out  of  self-disgust  at  his  own 


438  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

asinine  presumption!  When  I  think  of  my  own 
folly,  I  think,  oh,  the  impudence  of  me!  a  young 
cub  of  twenty-two  thinking  he  had  the  right  to  try 
to  shape  matters  which  meant  happiness  and  misery 
and  sin  and  death  to  human  beings!  What  a  prep 
trick !  It's  the  wicked  blind  cruelty  of  it  that  breaks 
you  all  up ;  but  it  is  the  rotten,  slushy,  grinning  con 
ceit  of  it  that  humiliates  you  and  makes  you  want 
to  run  and  hide ! 

Does  it  seem  strange  to  you  that  I  should  be 
nearer  light-hearted  than  I  have  been  since  my 
mother  died,  here  working  tooth  and  nail  against  all 
I  fervently  applauded  three  years  ago?  It  seems 
strange  to  me,  sometimes.  I  am  too  busy  to  analyze, 
but  I  wonder  if  it  isn't  that  I  recognize  that  I  have 
had  what  St.  Paul  calls  a  warring  in  my  members. 
The  Anglo-Saxon  in  me  has  conquered.  And  at 
whatever  expense,  I  am  thankful  the  battle  is  over. 
I  believe  my  mother  would  be,  too. 

At  least,  I  seem  to  be  back  to  myself,  in  my  right 
place.  I  can't  tell  you  how  good  to  me  Mr.  Hopkins 
and  Mr.  Rivers  have  been.  I  love  that  gnarled  old 
Spartan ! 

Every  night,  before  I  go  to  bed,  I  write  you  a  few 
words.  It  makes  me  sleep  better.  Some  day  I'll  see 
you  and  tell  you  a  lot  of  things.  To-night  I've  a  feel 
ing,  a  presentiment  you  might  call  it.  I'm  going  to 
write  this,  but  I'll  only  send  the  first  sheet.  After 
ward,  when  all  this  racket  is  over,  you  may  have  this 
to  laugh  over.  Or  if  my  silly  presentiment  comes 
true — it  will  be  in  my  pocket  for  you,  Peggy ;  Peg- 


JOHNNY'S   LETTERS   TO   ROGER   MACK     439 

gy,  my  own  darling  little  playmate  and  queen,  my 
love  all  my  life.  You  see,  I  can't  pretend  any  more. 
You  won't  get  this  if  I  am  alive  to-morrow  night; 
and  if  I'm  not,  you  will  forgive  me,  won't  you,  dear, 
for  telling  you  that  I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you ! 
There  has  never  been  anybody  but  you.  Do  you  re 
member  you  promised  to  marry  me  once  ?  You  did, 
sweetheart.  Our  solemn  troth  was  plighted  in  that 
little  plot  of  grass  near  the  japonicas.  We  had  been 
talking  about  what  we  should  do  when  we  were 
grown  up.  I  said  (in  deep  confidence)  that  I  should 
be  a  conspirator  and  set  poor  people  free.  You  said 
you  thought  that  would  be  very  stupid.  I  said: 
"What  are  you  going  to  be,  Peggy?"  You  said: 
"Oh,  I  shall  have  to  be  a  married  lady,  I  suppose, 
and  give  balls."  "Oh,"  I  said,  feeling  very  misera 
ble.  Then  I  asked  you  whom  you  would  marry  (I 
undoubtedly  said  who),  and  you  answered:  "I  sup 
pose  I'll  have  to  marry  you — to  keep  you  out  of 
mischief !"  On  this  I  cheered  up  tremendously,  and 
we  arranged  all  the  details  of  the  wedding,  and  I 
gave  you — 'twas  my  little  all — a  small  carnelian 
ring,  which  I  had  bought  from  a  boy  with  my  most 
precious  alley  tor.  You  gave  me  a  watch-charm 
which  my  father  had  given  you,  ungraciously  as 
suring  me  it  was  much  nicer  than  my  carnelian  ring. 
So,  my  darling,  you  see,  if  I  am  presumptuous,  I 
have  a  wee  excuse.  Let  me  be  presumptuous,  this 
once,  which  you  will  never  see — if  I  am  able  to 
blush  for  my  nonsense.  Peggy,  I  have  been  so 
homesick,  so  infernally  homesick!  I  longed  for  the 
hills  and  corn-field  and  the  river  and — oh,  I  longed 
for  you!  If  I  live  I'll  make  a  foothold,  and  then  I'll 


440  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

ask  you  to  forgive  me  and  keep  me  out  of  mischief. 
Good-by,  Peggy;  there  never  was  a  nobler  or 
sweeter  or  dearer  woman  in  the  world.  There 
never  will  be  for  me,  never.  No  matter  how  many 
worlds  I  may  have  to  go  through  after  this,  I'll 
claim  you  at  last. 

Your  Jo'nivan. 

Billy  has  my  insurance  policy.  I  took  it  out  for 
the  children.  I  had  to,  you  know.  Only  there's  just 
a  little  for  you,  to  whom  I  would  love  to  give  the 
whole  world.  And  Peggy,  won't  you  look  after 
Amelia  Ann  a  bit  more  than  the  others  ?  She  needs 
it. 

Please  tell  Billy  he  was  the  best  friend  on  earth  to 
me,  and  give  him  my  love;  I've  said  it  in  my  will, 
but  I  want  you  to  tell  him  for  me.  Oh,  Peggy,  dear, 
I  love  you.  Tell  dear  old  Mishka  it  will  be  all  right ; 
he  must  take  care  of  you.  Please  give  my  love  to  my 
stepmother. 

When  Johnny  wrote  this  last  letter  he  hesitated, 
holding  the  paper,  as  if  to  tear  it  apart.  Then,  with 
the  queer  smile  that  was  like  his  father's,  he  folded 
it  carefully  and  placed  it  in  an  envelope,  addressing 
it  firmly,  "Miss  Margaret  Gary  Rutherford,"  and 
after  addressing,  he  kissed  the  name.  "One  for  me, 
one  for  my  mother,  who  loved  you,  my  darling,"  he 
whispered.  And  he  placed  it  in  the  pocket  of  his 
shirt,  with  a  watch-charm  which  he  always  wore. 

Then,  smiling,  he  lay  down  dressed  as  he  was, 
wrapped  the  blankets  about  him,  and  almost  imme 
diately  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER   XV 

WHEN  AMELIA  ANN  WAS  "ix" 

At  that  very  hour  (it  was  on  the  stroke  of  mid 
night)  Amelia  Ann  was  groping  her  way  over  the 
shorn  pastures  blue-green  with  the  dew.  Nor  was 
Amelia  Ann's  conscience  in  the  least  agog.  On  the 
contrary,  it  approved  her,  with  a  very  rare  approval. 
So  did  her  self-respect.  Always  in  all  the  games, 
Amelia  Ann  wanted  to  be  "It" ;  now  she  was  being 
"It,"  and  enjoying  the  occasion,  immensely. 

Who  can  guess  how  tiny  a  hand  may  disarrange, 
may  destroy  wide-reaching  schemes!  Had  Tyler 
passed  Bloker's  little  daughter  on  the  street  it  would 
never  have  occurred  to  him  that  she  was  to  be  the 
vehicle  for  the  lame  Nemesis  to  reach  him.  Yet  such 
was  the  ordering  of  the  Fates. 

That  afternoon,  Amelia  Ann  had  been  sent  to 
town  by  Mrs.  Delaney  to  buy  a  certain  brand  of 
baking-powder  which  the  worthy  woman  affected, 
and  which,  out  of  sheer  perverseness,  the  hill  gro 
cery  would  not  keep.  Many  were  the  injunctions 
given  Amelia  Ann  to  be  sober,  to  be  diligent,  and  to 
be  in  the  constant  fear  of  the  street-cars.  Silver  coin 
to  the  amount  of  the  purchase-money  required,  with 
two  half-fare  car  tickets,  were  tied  up  in  her  little 
red-bordered  handkerchief.  Amelia  Ann  had  begged 

441 


442  THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR 

for  more;  she  had  pleaded  to  have  her  little  bank 
broken,  wherein  was  the  large  treasure  of  sixty 
cents;  but  Mrs.  Delaney  was  adamant.  "Yous  can 
pop  corn  and  boil  molasses  when  ye  git  back,  if 
you're  good,"  was  her  final  summation;  "that's  bet 
ter  than  sweeties.  Run  along!" 

"I  don't  want  it  for  candy,"  Amelia  Ann  sniffled. 

"What  for,  then?" 

"For  a  present  for  Johnny." 

Mrs.  Delaney  indulged  in  no  illusions  regarding 
Amelia  Ann's  truthfulness ;  she  credited  or  discred 
ited  the  child,  according  to  circumstances ;  and  cir 
cumstances  did  not  favor  her  to-day.  Therefore, 
she  tossed  her  head  and  retorted :  "You'll  wait  till  I 
help  you  pick  out  presents.  And  you  best  quit  calling 
Mr.  Gleason  'Johnny'  that  disrespectable  way. 
G'wan  now,  and  come  back  quick,  or  how'll  you 
have  biscuit  for  supper  ?" 

Amelia  Ann's  silent  obedience  might  have  warned 
her  guardian  that  some  plan  was  brewing ;  but  Mrs. 
Delaney  was  busy  with  her  spring"  house-cleaning 
and  her  whole  soul  was  on  soft  soap  and  scrubbing- 
brushes.  The  little  girl  departed,  unsuspected.  She 
bought  the  baking-powder,  honorably,  and  at  once 
carried  out  her  plan.  She  entered  the  most  preten 
tious  saloon  she  could  find.  The  saloon-keeper 
looked  up  in  surprise  at  the  neatly-dressed  little  girl 
with  the  red  tam-o'-shanter,  and  legs  like  black 
slate-pencils,  whose  soft,  childish  pipe  was  asking: 
"Do  you  want  to  see  me  sing  and  dance?" 

"Good  lord,  no,  child!"  snapped  he,  frowning. 
But  at  the  same  time  he  put  a  nickel  in  her  palm. 

"Can  you  dance  ?"  asked  another  man,  a  tall  man 


WHEN  AMELIA  ANN   WAS   "IT"  443 

with  big  eyes  that  stood  out,  and  a  wonderful  dia 
mond  pin  in  his  scarf. 

"Betcher  life!"  returned  Amelia  Ann.  She  knew 
the  man,  although  he  had  forgotten  her.  He  used  to 
come  to  see  her  papa.  He  was  mean  to  Johnny. 

"All  right,  dance!" 

"For  money?"  inquired  Amelia  Ann. 

Tyler  (for  it  was  he)  laughed  and  showed  a  quar 
ter. 

Amelia  Ann  promptly  laid  aside  her  tidy  little 
brown  coat  and  emerged  like  a  redbird,  in  her  crim 
son  frock.  She  knew  that  her  dancing  was  good; 
and  with  some  amusement  she  felt  the  change  in  her 
audience  from  indifferent  toleration  to  applause. 
She  swung,  she  swayed,  she  flung  her  arms  out,  she 
circled  triumphantly  on  a  single  toe ;  light  as  a  bird, 
she  pirouetted  over  the  sanded  floor,  caroling  to  her 
steps  the  song  which  Johnny  had  taught  her : 

"'Hard  luck  for  poor  old  Eli, 

Tough  on  the  Blue ; 
Now,  all  together,  smash  'em  and  break  through. 

'Gainst  the  line  of  Crimson 
They  can't  prevail. 

Three  cheers  for  Harvard, 
And  down  with  Yale !'  " 

The  listeners  did  not  catch  the  words;  but  the 
martial  lilt  of  the  air  pleased  them ;  soon  they  took  it 
up,  and  the  melody  swelled  out  to  the  street.  Dimes 
and  nickels  came  out  of  pockets,  with  the  clapping 
of  hands.  Amelia  Ann  was  used  to  such  triumphs; 
she  took  the  silver  and  praise  calmly.  "I  want  it  for 
Johnny  and  Ally,"  she  explained,  packing  her  gains 


444  THE   MAN   OF   THE  HOUR 

in  her  handkerchief;  and  not  for  the  first  time  Ally 
was  supposed  to  be  a  human  being. 

"You're  a  nice  little  kid,"  one  man  said,  "look 
ing  out  for  the  young  ones !" 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  do  a  dog-and-cat  fight?" 
asked  Amelia  Ann  kindly ;  she  always  gave  her  audi 
ence  their  money's  worth.  The  idle  listeners  were 
ready  for  anything ;  they  proposed  sending  for  some 
absent  "Jerry"  who  would  like  the  show ;  and,  pend 
ing  his  arrival,  they  placed  Amelia  Ann  inside  the 
bar  in  a  most  comfortable  chair  next  the  half-closed 
door  of  an  adjoining  room.  Now,  Amelia  Ann  had 
the  ears  of  a  hare,  and  when  she  perceived  that  there 
were  two  men  talking,  and  that  their  voices  lowered, 
she  instantly  perked  up  those  sharp  ears,  under 
standing  that  something  which  she  ought  not  to 
hear  was  being  discussed. 

She  peered  through  the  crack  of  the  door  and  saw 
Tyler.  Since  she  knew  that  Tyler  was  mean  to 
Johnny,  she  hated  him  with  exceeding  hatred.  She 
listened  the  harder.  It  was  Tyler  who  spoke,  first : 

"All  ready,  then?" 

"O  K,"  replied  the  other  man;  "there'll  be  a  big 
crowd  from  over  the  river.  They  ain't  rabbits  like 
our  fellows.  That  miner's  a  whole  orchestra !" 

"But  they  don't  know  ?" 

"Oh,  no.  Only  know  there's  something  up.  It's 
great.  Wally,  we'll  clean  the  whole  nest  of  damned 
scabs  up,  and  do  up  Gleason  or  Winslow  or  what 
ever  his  name  is,  jest  accidental." 

"It'll  do," — Tyler  was  more  moderate  of  accent — 
"if  none  of  the  outside  fellers  make  a  bungle.  Write 
to  Adam.  He  wanted  the  date." 


WHEN   AMELIA  ANN   WAS   "IT"  445 

"I  sent  him  a  postal." 

"A  postal!  Hell!" 

"Don't  get  giddy,  Wally.  I  only  said  Twelve 
Nineteen,  in  riggers,  and  ran  'em  together.  He'll 
catch  on  all  right." 

"The  new  men  understand  ?" 

"All  they  need.  They're  to  meet  at  twelve  and  git 
their  orders." 

"Which  window' 11  they  leave  open?" 

"Next  the  foundry,  left  side.  I've  marked  it." 

At  this  most  exciting  moment  the  saloon-keeper's 
arm  beckoned.  Amelia  Ann  must  go.  Her  whole 
soul  was  in  a  tumult;  but  she  was  an  artist  first  of 
all ;  secondly,  she  was  a  woman-child ;  and  to  both  of 
these,  acting  comes  like  breathing.  She  glided  for 
ward  with  her  chilly  little  stage  smile  on  her  color 
less  little  face.  The  puppy  and  the  kitty  evoked 
shrieks  of  laughter.  More  dimes  were  handed  to 
Amelia  Ann.  She  thanked  the  kind  gentlemen, 
courtesying  as  Johnny  had  taught  her ;  but  she  could 
not  be  moved  to  repeat  her  exhibition. 

"I  got  to  go  home  now,"  said  she;  "I  can't  do  no 
more  stunts." 

"Jest  the  nicest  little  kid  going,"  said  one  man; 
"ain't  it  queer,  the  tricks  them  little  innocent  things 
will  think  up." 

But  she  did  not  go  home  directly.  She  bought  a 
pair  of  brass  cuff-buttons  for  Johnny,  and  asked  the 
baker's  boy  what  day  it  was.  He  was  rather  a 
stupid  boy,  who  did  not  read  the  papers.  He  said : 
"The  eighteenth." 

The  little  girl  thanked  him  very  properly.    Re- 


446  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

lieved,  she  sought  the  street-car  for  home.  She  pon 
dered  much  whether  to  tell  Mrs.  Delaney,  but  she 
remembered  how  many  times  and  in  what  a  forcible 
manner  she  had  been  forbidden  to  dance  in  public, 
and  the  remembrance  tied  her  tongue.  Johnny  had 
been  almost  as  outspoken  as  Mrs.  Delaney,  but,  to 
do  Amelia  Ann  justice,  no  dread  of  Johnny's  dis 
approval  withheld  her,  although  a  glance  from  him 
carried  worse  punishment  to  the  strange  little  crea 
ture  than  all  Mrs.  Delaney's  cuffs.  But  Johnny  was 
to  be  over  the  river  all  the  evening  until  late  with 
Mr.  Rivers.  She  knew  it,  because  he  had  said  so  in 
a  note  to  Mrs.  Delaney  about  his  clean  clothes,  and 
Mrs.  Delaney  had  left  the  note  on  the  bureau.  Ame 
lia  always  took  her  information  where  she  found  it. 
She  had  acquired  the  useful  habit  at  school  when 
"Teacher"  used  to  pin  notes  to  her  frock  for  her  to 
take  home. 

She  rested  easy  on  the  baker  boy's  assurance;  a 
big  boy,  in  a  store,  must  know  things.  Therefore 
she  had  until  to-morrow  morning  to  decide  how 
she  should  get  at  Johnny.  Her  plan  was  simple: 
to  go  over  to  the  Millers',  who  had  a  telephone, 
and  call  up  the  Old  Colony  and  Johnny,  and  tell 
Johnny  over  the  wire.  Amelia  Ann  knew  all  about 
pickets  and  their  obstructing  communication — by 
feet ;  but  they  couldn't  stop  the  telephone.  Moreover 
— and  this  weighed  with  the  culprit — Johnny  could 
not  scold  much  over  the  'phone ;  anyhow,  he  couldn't 
look!  Maybe  she  wouldn't  tell  him  at  all  how  she 
happened  to  overhear  the  talk;  just  say  it  was  a 
"secret,"  and  of  course  she  couldn't  tell.  Amelia 


WHEN  AMELIA  ANN   WAS   "IT"  447 

Ann  chuckled  to  herself  at  her  own  sagacity.  She 
was  placid  and  comfortable.  She  divined  what  the 
men  had  meant,  as  only  a  city  child  brought  up  amid 
strikes  and  rumors  of  strikes  could  have  divined ;  old 
Tyler  was  going  to  try  to  get  into  the  shops  and 
drive  the  men  out  and  "do  up"  Johnny.  Oh,  Amelia 
Ann  understood.  But  her  confidence  in  her  one  hero 
was  boundless;  to  defeat  "old  Tyler"  it  merely 
needed  that  Johnny  should  know. 

Hence,  peacefully,  Amelia  Ann  composed  her 
mind  to  slumber  that  night  in  her  warm  little  bed, 
with  Thyrza  already  asleep  beside  her,  the  door 
open,  and  the  flames  in  the  base-burner  of  the  room 
beyond  making  glowing  eyes  at  her  through  its  tiny 
mica  windows.  April  nights  were  still  cold  some 
times,  for  it  was  a  late  spring,  and  the  base-burner 
was  not  yet  allowed  to  go  out.  To-night  the  wind 
was  rising.  To  Amelia  Ann,  warm  and  comforted 
by  biscuits  and  jam,  the  sound  was  delicious. 

"Ain't  it  blowy  outside!  Oh,  my,  ain't  it!"  was 
her  last  waking  thought.  She  slept  a  long  time; 
when  she  awakened  the  room  was  dark  but  for  the 
firelight.  The  wind  was  higher,  and  the  limbs  of  the 
trees  in  the  Millers'  yard  creaked  and  crackled.  A 
little  chill  crept  in  by  the  window,  which  Johnny 
made  her  keep  open  at  night.  She  did  not  feel  quite 
so  comfortable,  and  she  could  not  go  to  sleep.  She 
went  over  the  events  of  the  afternoon.  Presently 
she  began  to  question:  was  the  baker's  boy  right 
about  the  date  ?  She  felt  less  confidence  in  a  boy  in  a 
store  being  infallible.  Why  hadn't  she  looked  in  a 
paper?  Papers  always  had  the  day  of  the  month  on 


448  THE  MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

the  top  of  the  sheet;  at  least,  the  Pair  port  Citizen 
had.  Amelia  Ann  was  observant, — her  wits  were  al 
ways  at  the  window.  She  hadn't  the  least  doubt  of 
the  meaning  of  the  numbers  on  the  post  card;  she 
had  known  of  exactly  that  method  of  conveying  in 
formation  being  used.  No,  the  attack  would  be  at 
twelve  o'clock  on  the  nineteenth  of  April.  Was  to 
day  or  to-morrow  the  nineteenth?  Amelia  Ann 
knew  there  was  a  Citizen,  for  since  they  came  to 
Fairport,  and  Johnny  got  such  big  wages,  they  had 
the  Fairport  Citizen  every  day,  and  Mrs.  Delaney 
had  been  reading  about  the  strike  in  it  that  very 
evening.  How  stupid  not  to  have  looked,  then! 
Well,  she'd  have  to  look  now.  So,  very  crossly, 
Amelia  Ann  obeyed  her  conscience,  crept  out  of  her 
warm  nest  and  explored  the  kitchen,  in  the  dark,  for 
the  paper.  Amelia  Ann  didn't  mind  prowling  in  the 
dark;  her  finger-tips  saw,  Johnny  said.  She  found 
the  paper,  carried  it  into  the  light  of  the  mica  eyes — 
and  the  number  on  the  top  of  the  page  was  nineteen ! 
Amelia  Ann  stood  motionless.  Through  her  stu 
pid  trust  in  a  boy,  Johnny  might  be  killed !  But  the 
child  did  not  weep ;  she  did  not  stand  still,  even,  for 
more  than  a  second.  The  line  of  her  firm  little 
mouth  straightened,  her  faint,  childish  eyebrows 
knit.  Then  Amelia  Ann  sat  down  and  put  on  her 
stockings.  Mrs.  Delaney  slumbered  heavily,  and  lit 
tle  Franzy  less  heavily,  but  as  soundly,  while  the 
little  girl  dressed  herself  with  extraordinary  swift 
ness.  As  she  slipped  out  of  the  house  the  clock 
struck  twelve.  She  glanced  over  at  the  Miller  cot 
tage,  a  shadowgraph  only,  softly  dark,  with  no  detail 


WHEN   AMELIA   ANN   WAS   "IT"  449 

of  window  or  door;  so  on,  to  the  dark  bulk  of  the 
stable  where  Ally,  no  doubt,  was  sleeping,  like  every 
one  else.  The  idea  of  rousing  that  peaceful  house 
in  order  to  telephone  never  so  much  as  stirred  in 
Amelia  Ann's  mind ;  too  carefully  had  Mrs.  Delaney 
inculcated  a  noiseless  tread  and  a  hushed  voice  if  one 
crossed  that  threshold  where  any  noise  might  send 
the  poor  lady  up  stairs  into  convulsions !  No ;  Ame 
lia  Ann  stole  on  tiptoe  over  the  plank  walk  and 
made  for  the  stable-door,  always  left  unlocked  on 
account  of  Miss  Tina's  consuming  terror  of  fire. 
Often  had  she  said:  "Ally  much  better  be  stolen 
than  burned  alive !" 

Thus  no  barrier  met  her  noiseless  approach.  In 
side  the  stable,  she  called  the  horse,  and  Ally's 
friendly  neigh  told  her  she  might  safely  enter  the 
stall.  Once  she  was  obliged  to  strike  one  of  the 
matches  she  had  brought  with  her;  but  she  blew  it 
out  and  stepped  on  it  two  times  to  make  sure  it 
would  stir  up  no  harm.  She  put  the  bridle  on  Ally, 
but  she  put  nothing  else,  for  by  this  time  the  little 
acrobat  rode  like  a  cowboy,  and  it  was  easy  enough 
to  leap  on  the  horse's  back  from  the  oats  box. 

She  had  to  ride  carefully  until  she  was  out  of 
earshot  of  her  home.  Then  she  let  Ally  go,  go  her 
best,  her  wildest!  Down  the  long  hill  her  horse's 
hoofs  clattered.  A  film  of  rain  glistened  on  the 
brick  pavement,  under  the  white  electric  lights.  Ally 
slipped,  but  she  did  not  fall,  and  Amelia  Ann  turned 
into  another  street  with  macadam  paving,  but  she 
never  slackened  her  speed.  Miss  Tina  would  have 
wrung  her  hands  and  sobbed  could  she  have  wit- 


450  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

nessed  that  nightmare  ride.  Amelia  Ann  hadn't  en 
joyed  herself  so  much  since  she  left  Chicago.  To 
ride  like  that  with  a  clear  conscience  was  worth  her 
numb  hands  and  her  chattering  teeth. 

Wakeful  creatures  on  the  road  of  that  furious 
flight,  nurses  or  mourners  or  toilers,  heard  and 
marveled  over  the  pounding  hoofs.  They  roused,  for 
a  second,  many  a  sleeper,  but  ere  he  could  harken 
enough  to  understand  they  were  swept  into  silence. 
The  pickets,  patroling  the  side  alley-way  to  the 
works,  cursing  the  damp  chill  of  the  night  air  and 
relieving  each  other  from  their  fortalice  of  "Oscar's 
Sample  Rooms,"  had  nearly  let  her  pass  out  of 
sheer  surprise.  But  they  had  been  cautioned,  that 
night,  not  to  let  a  mouse  go  by  them,  and  the  leader 
shouted:  "Halt!"  lifting  something  which  glinted 
in  the  street  lights. 

The  man  next  him  exclaimed  not  to  shoot  the 
child;  the  bar  was  down.  The  bar  was  a  great  log 
resting  on  trestles,  spanning  the  narrow  way.  What 
the  police  thought  of  this  obstruction  of  traffic  no 
one  knew,  because  they  did  not  tell.  They  probably 
judged  it  one  of  the  rights  of  labor. 

"Whoa!"  bawled  the  nearest  picket;  "whoa! 
you'll  break  your  horse's  neck!" 

But  Amelia  Ann's  blood  was  up;  so  was  Ally's; 
many  a  time  in  her  Kentucky  youth  had  she  leaped 
the  pasture  fence ;  she  went  over  the  log  like  a  bird ; 
she  never  so  much  as  grazed  it  with  her  heels. 

"Damn  her!  Shoot  the  horse!"  screamed  the  first 
picket,  who  was  in  Tyler's  secret  plans.  There  was 
a  shot,  but  it  went  wild.  Raw  marksmanship  is  usu- 


WHEN   AMELIA   ANN   WAS   "IT"  451 

ally  uncertain  at  night.  Amelia  Ann  saw  the  low 
fence,  the  alley  between  high  brick  walls  and  be 
yond  Johnny's  men  and  Johnny.  Without  an  eye- 
blink  of  pausing,  crouched  low  over  Ally's  neck, 
she  put  the  horse  to  the  fence;  she  rushed  her  over 
the  litter  of  a  foundry;  she  turned  her  so  sharply 
that  her  feet  slipped  about  in  a  sickening  lurch,  and 
then,  while  the  useless  fusillade  still  woke  the 
echoes,  she  rode  up  to  the  watchman  at  the  foundry 
door. 

"Please  let  me  in;  I  got  to  speak  to  Johnny,"  said 
Amelia  Ann. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   END   OF  THE  DUEL 

It  was  the  chief  strike-breaker  who  came  out  to 
receive  the  limp  little  form  as  it  rolled  in  a  heap  off 
the  trembling  horse.  The  strike-breaker  had  had  a 
little  daughter  of  his  own,  who  died  when  she  was 
Amelia  Ann's  age.  Very  gently  he  carried  her  into 
the  hall,  through  the  office,  to  Johnny's  room. 

"Hurry!  hurry!"  she  kept  demanding,  and  the 
strike-breaker  first  walked  swiftly,  then  more  swift 
ly  ;  at  last  he  ran. 

Johnny  sat  up  in  bed,  fully  dressed;  one  hand 
flashed  out  a  revolver,  the  other  turned  on  the  elec 
tric  lights. 

The  strike-breaker  had  conceived  an  admiration 
for  the  young  fellow ;  he  registered  it  justified  when 
he  heard  Johnny's  even  tones : 

"Well,  Amelia  Ann,  what's  up?" 

The  shivering  little  mite  lifted  undaunted  eyes, 
and  clung  to  the  iron  side  of  the  bedstead  to  hold 
herself  on  her  tingling,  tottering  feet.  Her  teeth 
chattered,  but  her  voice  was  the  undaunted,  "sassy" 
voice  of  Amelia  Ann :  "Johnny,  I  got  something 
terrible  important  to  tell  you,  but  you  got  to  promise 
not  to  scold  me  first." 

Johnny  knew  his  girl ;  he  wasted  no  precious  min 
utes.  "All  right,  I  promise.  Get  on !"  said  he. 

452 


THE   END   OF   THE   DUEL  453 

Then,  Amelia  Ann,  with  remarkable  directness, 
for  a  child,  blurted  out  her  tale  and  its  conclusion. 

"I  seen  'em  a-comin',  too,  down  by  the  river,  an 
awful  big  lot!  And  the  foundry  winder's  open  on 
the  alley." 

"Very  well/'  was  Johnny's  comment;  "ring  the 
bell,  Mat,"— to  the  strike-breaker.  "Look  out  for 
the  window,  first.  That  means  we've  spies  inside — " 

"I'll  fix  'em.  I'll  put  the  man  I  suspect  where  he'll 
get  a  dose,"  answered  the  strike-breaker;  "I'll  see  to 
the  window  and  be  back." 

He  was  back  before  Johnny  had  finished  telephon 
ing  Hopkins  and  Rivers.  The  strike-breaker  caught 
his  last  words :  "Yes,  sir.  Do  as  we  agreed  ?  Good- 
by ;  we're  all  right." 

"You've  planned  this  all  out  beforehand?"  said 
the  strike-breaker,  who  had  been  touching  a  bell  or 
two,  himself,  sending  his  own  prearranged  signals. 

"Of  course, — it  was  such  a  probable  thing.  And 
you  know  Tyler  skipped  off  to-day  as  if  to  Chicago 
— only  went  as  far  as  Gillmansie.  We  shadowed 
him.  So  we  are  all  ready ;  but  it  was  blooming  lucky 
the  little  girl  gave  us  warning  about  the  window; 
we  had  it  boarded  up  and  we  shouldn't  have  given  it 
a  thought,  until  too  late.  Mr.  Standish  and  Lossing 
have  stiffened  up  the  mayor — or  scared  him,  more 
than  Tyler  can,  and  Company  K  boys  are  all  ready 
to  turn  out  for  a  hurry  call.  Mr.  Hopkins  will  at 
tend  to  that.  In  a  minute  you'll  hear  the  bell. 
There!"  He  caught  up  the  receiver.  "You  have?" 
he  called;  "it's  all  right?  .  .  .  That's  good. 
.  .  .  Has  he?  Ready  to  call  the  fire  department 
if  I  give  the  signal,  please!  That's  all  right."  He 


454  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

laid  down  the  receiver,  smiling.  "Hopkins  has  sent 
in  the  call.  He's  on  his  way.  He  has  called  on  the 
police,  also.  Now,  if  we  can  hold  out  twenty-odd 
minutes  we  shall  send  them  flying."  He  looked  at 
the  little  messenger  spreading  bird-like  hands  over 
the  glow  in  his  grate;  his  brows  met,  but  only  for 
an  instant.  "Amelia  Ann,"  he  called,  and  she  turned. 
"You  want  to  take  a  hand  in  this  scrimmage?" 

"Betcher  life,"  Amelia  Ann  observed  calmly. 

"Then  listen !  Don't  stir  out  of  this  room  unless 
it  gets  afire.  If  it  does,  skip!  But  call  340  first,  if 
you  can.  That's  the  fire  department.  Say:  'They 
need  you  at  the  Old  Colony.  Come  a-running!' 
Then  you  get  out.  But  don't  go  unless  you  have  to. 
Mr.  Hardy  or  I  will  tell  you  if  you  have  to  do  any 
thing  else.  Now,  say  it  over  about  340."  Amelia 
Ann,  never  taking  her  eyes  off  Johnny's,  repeated 
the  message. 

"Very  well.  Don't  mind  if  you  hear  brickbats  on 
the  shutters.  They're  iron  and  bolted,  and  the  walls 
are  thick.  Don't  mind  gun  shots.  We  have  guns  as 
well  as  they.  You're  the  sentry  in  charge.  I  salute 
you,  sentinel."  Gravely  he  lifted  his  hand  in  a  mili 
tary  salute.  Amelia  Ann  as  gravely  saluted  in  re 
turn.  She  was  quite  sure,  now,  she  was  "It." 

"Please,  Johnny,  I  mean  Captain,  kin  I  sing?" 
she  asked. 

"Sing  away.  Good  night,  sentinel.  I'll  see  you 
later." 

With  the  last  word  he  turned  swiftly  and  drew 
the  other  man  out  of  the  room.  As  the  door  closed 
behind  them,  they  both  paused ;  of  a  sudden,  the 
white  electric  light  blocked  out  all  the  upper  win- 


THE   END   OF  THE   DUEL  455 

dows — below,  the  heavy  shutters  were  like  closed 
eyelids  and  gave  no  sign — the  long  aisles  flashed 
innumerable  brushes  of  flame  over  half -dressed  ne 
groes,  who  were  making  for  their  posts  as  rapidly, 
and  with  as  little  excitement,  as  in  their  nightly 
drills.  Perhaps  some  of  them  deemed  it  no  more, 
for  the  white  teeth  shone  all  along  the  sable  line. 

"Guns  and  hose  ready?"  asked  the  young  com 
mander.  He  had  forgotten  all  his  foreboding  of  the 
afternoon;  his  veins  ran  the  warmer  for  the  sheer 
Anglo-Saxon  joy  in  fighting;  he  chuckled  at  poor 
Holman's  hard  luck,  sick  at  home  with  the  measles ; 
secretly,  he  hoped  Graves,  the  next  in  office, 
wouldn't  get  to  the  spot  in  time.  His  eye  was  every 
where;  his  mind  whirled  through  all  the  possibili 
ties  of  attack.  "Guns  and  hose  ready?"  said  he.  Mat 
Hardy  nodded. 

"Water  first,  you  know;  don't  shoot  unless  you 
must,  then  at  their  legs." 

"There's  a  tough  gang  from  over  the  river,"  re 
ported  the  strike-breaker,  "not  workmen,  just  river 
scum.  They'll  be  bound  to  fall  in  for  the  chance  of 
stealing  something  and  the  fun  of  scaring  a  nigger. 
Then,  some  of  Danbury's  men  are  pretty  hard  citi 
zens.  They  struck  this  afternoon,  you  know.  Lot 
of  boys  in  there,  too.  And  there  are  some  miners 
out." 

"Yes,  listen!" 

Hardy  sunk  his  chin  on  his  breast  with  a  grim 
smile.  He  knew  the  sound;  many  a  time  had  he 
harkened  to  that  broken,  hollow  murmur  as  of  the 
wind  rising  in  the  forest,  as  of  the  pounding  of 
muffled  hammers,  the  marching  of  a  mass  of  men, 


456  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

not  keeping  step.  The  day  force  which  slept  had 
joined  the  night  force  which  worked.  Johnny  and 
his  lieutenant  saw  that  every  man  was  at  his  post. 
With  that  ominous,  pounding  roar  in  all  their  ears, 
Johnny  jumped  on  an  anvil,  and  smiled  around  the 
shop. 

"The  soldiers  are  coming," — his  clean-cut  tones 
reached  every  man — "stand  these  fellows  off  a  few 
minutes,  and  the  soldiers  will  be  here !  We'll  break 
the  strike,  to-night.  Hot  coffee  and  cold  beer  will  be 
served  as  soon  as  the  retreat  is  over.  Three  cheers 
for  Hopkins.  Now !  All  together !" 

The  men  cheered,  the  negroes  with  a  will,  the 
strike-breakers  rather  tamely ;  but  there  was  a  good, 
steady  glint  in  their  eyes. 

While  the  cheer  yet  rang,  Johnny  and  the  second 
in  command  exchanged  glances.  Something  banged 
against  the  great  arch  of  the  foundry  door.  A  voice 
demanded  admission. 

"What  cjo  you  want  here?"  called  Johnny  back; 
"do  you  know  that  you  are  breaking  and  entering  a 
house  that  doesn't  belong  to  you,  and  that  we,  the 
lawful,  legal  guardians  of  the  premises"  (Johnny 
flung  all  his  frail  possessions  in  legal  lore  into  his 
sentences)  "that  we  have  the  right  to  shoot  and  kill 
you,  if,  being  warned,  you  do  not  desist?  In  the 
name  of  the  state  of  Iowa,  I  call  upon  you  all  to  dis 
perse  !" 

"Aw,  go  chase  yourself!"  a  voice  retorted.  There 
rose  the  hideous  outcry  of  a  mob,  as  of  a  pack  of 
wolves,  heating  its  own  fury  with  yells  and  shouts 
and  the  screaming  of  savage  and  filthy  threats. 

"Say,  they  got  that  there  log  the  pickets  had," 


THE   END   OF   THE   DUEL  457 

said  Mat  Hardy ;  "they  are  going  to  make  a  batter 
ing-ram  of  it,  I  guess." 

"I  don't  see  hardly  any  of  our  men,"  said  Johnny ; 
"they're  all  outsiders !" 

Above  the  tumult,  Tyler's  voice  boomed  like  the 
clang  of  a  great  bell:  "Open  the  doors  and  clear 
out,  we  won't  touch  a  hair  of  your  heads !  Stay  in 

there,  and  we'll  pound  the scabs  to 

rags!" 

"Guess  we  better  cool  those  hot  heads  off  a  bit," 
said  Johnny ;  "turn  on  the  hose." 

He  stood  behind  a  window  protected  with  heavy 
iron  wire,  and  watched  for  the  spouting  streams; 
only  two  came,  and  Hardy  reported:  "That  fool 
inside  has  cut  the  hose !" 

"Do  you  know  who  he  is?" 

"I  made  a  guess  at  it.  We've  a  brother-in-law  of 
Adam  Finn  who  come  in  Monday,  pretended  he  run 
the  pickets.  I  got  him  tied  up  and  a  nigger  settin' 
on  him." 

"They  mean  something  worse  than  cutting  hose; 
see  that  banana  cart  with  the  sacks  and  the  spades  ?" 

"I've  seen  it:  the  miners  mean  to  dig  holes  and 
blow  up  something,  most  likely  the  shed  we  sleep  in. 
That's  what's  the  matter  with  the  darkies;  they're 
scared  blue,  'fraid  of  dinnymite.  Told  'em  coal 
miners  didn't  use  dinnymite ;  but  they  got  it  in  their 
heads  that  every  miner  here's  got  his  boot-legs 
crammed  with  sticks  of  the  damn  stuff  and  that  the 
cart's  full  of  bombs.  Told  'em  they  couldn't  do 
nothin'  with  sticks,  if  they  had  'em;  but  you  might's 
well  reason  with  a  mule !" 

Even  the  two  streams  held  the  mob  back  a  mo- 


458  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

ment,  and  when  a  rashly  venturesome  soul  got  the 
full  force  in  his  chest  and  went  sprawling,  his  own 
comrades  screamed  with  laughter.  But  the  second 
after,  an  explosion  shook  the  windows  with  a  crack 
ling  noise  as  of  splintered  glass,  made  the  heavy 
doors  chatter  on  their  hinges,  and  turned  the  black 
faces  a  drabbled  gray  in  their  terror. 

"Say,  boss !"  gurgled  one,  "I  ain't  aitnin'  to  fight 
no  dinnymite  bums.  I  draws  de  line,  right  dar;  I'll 
fight  humans  w'ile  I  kin  stan',  but  dat  ar's  conjure 
work,  and  I  gits!" 

A  groan  of  assent  betrayed  how  well  he  spoke  for 
his  race.  They  were  past  argument.  They  needed  a 
demonstration. 

"Ten  men  to  follow  me!"  called  Johnny.  "I'll 
finish  this  nonsense !" 

Every  strike-breaker  ran  forward,  and  half  a 
dozen  blacks.  "First  ten!"  shouted  Johnny;  "no, 
Mat  Hardy,  you  can't  go !  You've  got  to  run  the  de 
fense.  This  is  my  job!  Throw  the  door  open  and 
shut  it  behind  me ;  but  be  ready  to  pull  that  cart  in 
the  little  door,  when  we  get  it.  Now!  Out  of  the 
way  of  the  door !" 

Johnny  and  his  ten  fell,  like  the  bolt  of  a  catapult, 
on  the  push-cart.  They  drenched  the  cart  with  their 
hose  before  a  pick,  wielded  by  a  blackened,  red- 
shirted  fellow  from  the  coal  mines  over  the  river, 
drove  three  or  four  leaks  into  the  hose  and  sent  the 
water  spurting  at  right  angles.  The  push-cart  was 
wrenched  from  its  guard  and  surrounded  by  the 
sallying  party.  Ere  the  assaulters  quite  understood 
the  object  of  the  sally,  the  cart  was  surrounded  by 
drawn  revolvers ;  until,  suddenly,  the  small  door,  at 


THE   END   OF   THE   DUEL  459 

which  they  had  not  looked,  swung  inward  and  their 
best  weapon  was  inside,  out  of  their  reach,  while  a 
child's  keen,  sweet  high  pipe  cleft  the  uproar: 

"  'Gainst  the  line  of  crimson 

They  can't  prevail ! 
Three  cheers  for  Harvard 
And  down  with  Yale!" 

"Lord !"  thought  Johnny ;  "if  I  only  had  a  few  of 
the  boys  here,  we'd  show  them !"  It  was  strange 
how  the  old  college  cries  went  to  his  head  with  a 
kind  of  intoxication.  He  found  himself  yelling 
"Har-vard!"  as  he  smote,  and  out  of  his  little  for 
lorn  hope,  bleeding  already  from  the  missiles  too 
easily  found  in  the  yard,  came  an  answering  shout 
of  "Yale!  Yale!"  The  shouter  was  a  little  strike 
breaker,  whom  Johnny  had  found  out,  at  odds  with 
his  people  and  his  own  foolish  past,  and  ready  for 
any  desperate  endeavor.  Johnny  sent  him  a  single 
glance,  and  the  two  men  knew  each  other. 

The  door  had  closed  the  instant  the  cart  was 
drawn  in,  as  Johnny  had  ordered.  But  Tyler  had 
time  to  rush  a  score  of  men  between  Johnny's  men 
and  the  door.  Two  men  had  gone  inside  with 
the  push-cart ;  all  might,  perhaps,  have  entered,  had 
not  one  been  felled  by  the  pick  of  the  giant  in  the 
red  shirt.  He  lay,  with  a  ghastly  wound  in  his  head, 
but  still  breathing. 

"We  can't  leave  him,  boys,"  cried  Johnny,  "pull 
him  along  with  us!  We  can  hold  out  for  the  sol 
diers!  But  push  back  for  the  door!"  The  men 
shouted.  Tyler's  men  yelled  back,  and  there  was  a 
rush ;  but  the  revolvers  barked.  The  mob  gave  back. 


460  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

"Aim  at  their  legs,  men!  Legs!"  commanded 
Johnny,  who  was  looking  a  dozen  ways  at  once.  The 
brickbats  fell  about  the  men's  heads ;  but  so  wedged 
into  the  crowd  was  the  little  hollow  square  that 
Tyler  did  not  dare  bid  his  own  guns  to  fire.  The 
best  policy  seemed  to  him  to  overpower  the  half- 
dozen  fighters  by  the  sheer  impetus  of  a  great  mass. 
But  there  where  the  revolvers  shot  into  so  dense  a 
crowd  they  could  not  miss.  Half  a  dozen  men  lay 
on  the  ground ;  they  had  to  be  helped  away,  and  the 
constant  volleys  from  the  upper  windows  of  the 
factory  had  driven  back  the  parties  attacking  the 
other  doors.  None  was  killed,  but  a  score  had  been 
wounded  by  the  riot-guns'  buckshot. 

Tyler  drew  the  big  fellow  in  the  red  shirt,  aside. 
He  was  a  man  who  had  lost  his  two  sons  in  a  mine 
accident,  caused  simply  and  solely  by  the  parsimony 
of  the  mine  owners;  he,  himself,  had  been  injured 
on  the  head  and  was  never  after  wholly  sane;  a  fight 
acted  on  him  like  whisky ;  he  became  a  raging  Ber 
serker,  absolutely  reckless  of  life,  and  he  hated  the 
strike-breakers  as  a  settler,  whose  family  has  been 
murdered  in  an  Indian  outbreak,  hates  Indians.  His 
pick  had  made  more  than  one  hideous  mark. 

"Go  for  the  young  fellow  with  the  light-blue  shirt 
and  the  cap,  right  there  in  the  middle,  Luke,"  said 
Tyler.  "Get  him  down,  the  others  will  run !" 

"I'll  kill  him!"  said  Luke,  "he's  the  boss." 

"The  rest  of  you,  on  this  side,  make  for  that  big 
door!  These  fellows  can't  move,  and  the  door's 
shaking;  the  hinges  are  broken.  Get  out  that  log 
and  smash  it  in !  They'll  run  like  rats  when  they  see 
us  inside !" 


THE   END    OF   THE   DUEL  461 

It  was  not  so  bad  a  plan,  although  it  did  not  make 
enough  account  of  the  riot-guns;  but  at  this  mo 
ment  a  shout  and  waving  hands  turned  the  eyes  of 
the  crowd  to  Shop  A,  the  big  wood-working  shop, 
next  the  sheds  where  the  shop  force  was  sheltered. 
One  of  its  second  story  windows  was  glowing  blood- 
red  and  purring  smoke  through  every  crevice  of  the 
casement.  The  same  glance  discovered  a  figure 
creeping  up  the  fire-escape  toward  the  glass.  The 
creeping  figure  was  that  of  a  gray-haired  little  man, 
and  his  dried-up,  wrinkled  Irish  face,  with  its  stub 
ble  of  gray  beard,  was  illumined  by  the  spouting 
light.  Some  of  the  mob  knew  him, — Dennis  Fogar- 
ty,  who  had  worked  in  the  Old  Colony  for  thirty 
years.  He  had  a  length  of  hose  flopping  clumsily 
after  him.  For  a  second  the  storm  of  battle  was 
stricken  dumb,  and  Johnny  as  well  as  Tyler  caught 
his  strained,  cracked  voice  pleading:  "Boys,  turn 
on  the  water,  turn  it  on!  She's  on  fire!  The  Old 
Colony  that's  kept  us  all  's  on  fire!  You  wouldn't 
want  her  to  burn  up!  I  b'long  to  the  union,  I'm 
striking,  too ;  but  I  can't  let  the  Old  Colony  burn ! 
You're  burning  up  your  jobs,  boys !" 

The  hose  was  only  a  garden  hose,  kept  in  the  yard, 
and,  of  course,  turned  on  from  the  outside.  Some 
one,  of  the  few  Old  Colony  men  present,  must  have 
felt  the  force  of  the  appeal  and  responded,  for  a  cas 
cade  spirted  up  through  the  nozzle. 

Probably  the  fire,  with  its  presumable  demorali 
zation  of  the  defenders,  was  part  of  Tyler's  scheme 
of  battle,  and  was  started  by  the  same  hand  which 
had  ripped  off  the  boards  from  the  alley  window  and 
slashed  the  hose ;  Tyler  may  have  intended  but  slight 


462  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

damage  to  the  works ;  however  that  may  be,  the  fire 
was  essential  to  his  plans ;  he  snatched  a  musket  from 
the  man  next  him. 

"Let  the  old  man  alone!"  shouted  Johnny;  "he's 
one  of  your  own  men — oh,  you  damn  mucker!" 
Tyler,  safe  beyond  Johnny's  reach,  had  taken  care 
ful  aim  and  fired.  The  old  man  screamed.  He  stag 
gered  on  his  narrow  perch ;  but,  with  a  mortal  effort, 
he  jammed  his  hose  nozzle  through  the  window- 
pane,  between  the  iron  bars;  then  his  muscles 
shrank,  his  hands  opened  and  shut,  clutching  for 
the  rounds  of  the  ladder,  his  arms  flew  out,  and  he 
plunged  downward,  in  a  hideous  bat-like  dart. 

"Now!  he  ain't  looking!"  cried  Tyler  to  Luke. 

But  Johnny,  although  his  face  had  gone  white 
and  he  felt  horribly  sick  for  a  second,  was  not  off  his 
guard.  He  dodged  all  but  a  graze  of  the  terrible 
pick,  and  his  left  hand  shot  out  the  wickedest  blow, 
which  he  had  ever  dealt  in  his  life;  it  caught  the 
miner  where  it  was  aimed  and  felled  him  as  would 
a  hammer.  As  he  fell,  the  Yale  boy,  whose  revolver 
was  empty,  caught  the  pick  from  his  hands  and  dealt 
furious  blows  to  right  and  left  with  it,  which  cleared 
a  circle,  for  the  mob  fell  back  beyond  its  swing. 
Adam  Finn  alone  sprang  at  Johnny  with  his  knife, 
got  the  butt  of  a  revolver  in  his  face,  and  staggered 
back.  One  of  Johnny's  men,  who  had  tasted  Adam's 
knife,  already,  shot  his  last  cartridge  at  him;  it 
missed,  but  the  man  smiled  grimly,  for  it  went 
straight  to  the  heart  of  the  miner  in  the  red  shirt, 
at  that  moment  lifted  by  a  comrade. 

Johnny's  men  were  fighting  now  for  their  lives. 
There  had  been  no  real  fury,  at  first,  in  the  great 


THE   END   OF   THE   DUEL  463 

body  of  the  attackers ;  but  the  combat,  the  ferocious 
hand-to-hand  struggle,  had  roused  the  elemental 
savagery  of  both  sides.  Now,  the  mob  fought  not 
for  their  first  object,  which  was  simply  to  chase  the 
strike-breakers  out  of  the  building,  but  out  of  sheer 
blood-hunger.  Johnny's  little  band  was  dwindled  to 
half  a  dozen,  all  bleeding  from  ugly  wounds,  two  of 
them  only  keeping  their  feet  out  of  their  desperate 
determination  not  to  fall.  On  the  ground,  which 
they  guarded,  lay  two  of  their  comrades,  one  of 
whom  still  gasped  feebly;  the  other  would  never 
be  disturbed  by  the  rage  about  him.  Adam  Finn's 
aim  had  been  too  true.  Their  revolvers  were  empty 
save  one  shot  that  was  still  in  Johnny's  pistol.  He 
was  saving  it  for  Tyler,  but  Tyler  kept  well  out  of 
range  on  the  other  side.  The  main  body  of  the  strik 
ers  was  at  the  foundry  door,  toward  which  John 
ny's  men  now  wedged  their  way  inch  by  inch.  He 
could  hear,  to  the  left,  the  cries  of  the  rescue  party 
which  Mat  had  sent  in  spite  of  orders;  but  they 
were  engaged  by  the  other  wing.  Tyler  had  sent 
all  his  guns  there,  but,  luckily,  most  of  them  had 
been  fired,  already,  in  such  excitement  that  they  had 
done  little  damage,  and  their  holders,  half  of  them, 
did  not  know  how  to  reload.  Johnny  could  hear  an 
other  sound.  Amelia  Ann's  nose  had  not  been  idle ; 
she  had  smelled  smoke,  she  had  seen  the  light;  she 
had  summoned  340,  and  now  she  screamed,  "The 
firemen  are  coming !  I  hear  them  a-coming !  I  hear 
the  hosses !  I  hear  the  hosses !" 

Tyler  ground  his  teeth.  "Put  the  bar  up!"  he 
cried  to  Adam  Finn.  "Have  the  boys  keep  'em  back ! 
Now,  Bud,  stand  by  me,  it's  us  to  the  bat !" 


464  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

The  man  addressed  was  an  old  river-rat  from  the 
southwest,  thief,  pirate,  and  cut-throat.  He  had 
come  to  see  the  fun,  and  found  more  fun  than  he  ex 
pected. 

With  Bud  on  one  side  and  two  sure  hands  on  the 
other,  Tyler  led  his  rush.  Simultaneously,  three  men 
struck  with  their  clubbed  guns  at  the  little  Yale 
man.  They  believed  Johnny's  revolver  empty,  but 
flinging  his  own  assailant  back  as  if  he  were  a  sack 
of  wheat,  he  sprang  at  Tyler.  He  shot  and  shot 
straight.  Their  eyes  crossed  in  one  flash  of  deadly 
recognition.  It  was  the  end  of  their  long  duel. 

"Bud!"  shrieked  Tyler.  And  he  sank  against  his 
friends.  Bud  responded.  His  knife  flashed.  As 
Johnny  half  wheeled,  it  glanced  against  his  side, 
stinging  only  a  second;  at  the  same  time,  he  felt  a 
blow  on  his  head.  He  had  stuffed  his  cap  with  en 
gine  waste,  and  well  the  rudely  armored  helmet  had 
served  him ;  but  so  mighty  was  Adam  Finn's  stroke 
that  it  bore  him  to  his  knees.  "Har — vard!"  he 
cried,  unconscious  of  his  cry,  putting  all  his  ebbing 
force  into  one  blow  at  the  man  above  him,  ere  the 
crowd  and  the  brick  walls  and  the  lights  wavered, 
and  the  roar  of  conflict  swung  into  the  shrill  cry  of 
the  fife,  the  roll  of  drums  and  a  widening,  dizzy 
ringing,  as  of  bells.  He  knew  that  the  soldiers  were 
come,  but  come  too  late  for  him.  Yet  knowing  it, 
his  stiff  lips  smiled  the  smile  the  little  boy  used  to 
give.  It  wouldn't  be  too  late  for  the  Yale  boy  and 
the  others.  And  Bloker  might  forgive  him  now,  and 
his  father,  and  Peggy  would  know  that  he  was  some 
good  in  a  Blood  Feud.  Then  it  was  not  only  dark 
but  still,  and  he  was  very  glad  to  be  so  sound  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

JOSIAH    WINSLOW'S    DAY 

When  Johnny  came  out  of  the  darkness,  he  was 
sure  that  he  was  not  yet  awake,  for  he  lay  in  his  own 
bed  in  his  own  room,  and  to  his  dazzled  and  darkling 
senses  there  was  nothing  incongruous  in  the  new 
picture  of  his  mother,  while  he  remembered  well  the 
portrait  of  his  father,  whose  rugged  features  faced 
him  from  the  wall  of  the  opposite  room  and  seemed 
vaguely  to  welcome  him.  The  room  looked  exactly 
as  it  used  to  look  in  his  college  vacations.  There 
were  all  the  old  belongings  of  the  room :  the  folio, 
the  pistols,  the  sword  of  the  ancient  governor,  the 
pictures  which  he  had  known  from  a  child,  the  big 
arm-chair,  the  lounge  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  the  writ 
ing-table  on  which  Peggy  and  he  had  scratched 
their  childish  initials — Hilma  had  curled  them  both 
impartially  for  that  same  act — the  samovar,  which 
was  his  mother's,  on  her  table.  Through  the  side 
door,  he  could  view  the  white  tiles  of  his  bath-room, 
and  the  very  same  old  brown  bath-robe  of  his  Har 
vard  days  was  flung  over  a  chair.  It  was  so  like 
the  old  time  and  all  so  dreamlike  that  he  wondered 
if  he  could  not  make  his  mind  work  more  marvels, 
as  he  had  made  it  at  the  hospital.  Once  to  feel  his 
mother's  arm  under  his  neck  as  he  used  to  feel  it  in 

465 


466  THE   MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

his  childish  hurts,  once  to  hear  his  father's  gruff 
whisper:  "Hullo,  son,  feeling  better?"  once  to  see 
Peggy's  radiant  head  tossed  at  him, — he  wouldn't 
mind,  then,  having  been  killed,  just  when  life  meant 
something ! 

Perhaps  his  mind  would  feign  images  for  him — 
yes,  it  was  obeying  him !  With  a  thrill,  he  was  con 
scious  that  an  arm  was  under  his  pillow,  that  a  tear 
splashed  on  his  hair  to  roll  over  his  forehead,  that 
a  woman's  soft  tones  trembled  on  the  words :   "My 
dear  boy !  my  dear  boy !"   Yet  it  was  not  quite,  not 
quite  tnamasa's  violin  sweetness  of  voice.  Who  else, 
who  else  ?  Not  Peggy — that  was  Peggy  who  flitted, 
white,  silent,  past  the  doorway  down  the  hall!   Oh, 
Peggy,  please  come  back!    But  if  not  his  mother, 
not  Peggy,  who  could  it  be  ?  It  wasn't  dear,  strong 
Hilma,  who  was  wedded  and  happy,  and  had  a  boy 
named  after  him;  her  crisp  Swedish  accents  there 
would  be  no  mistaking.  And  it  wasn't  the  tall,  smil 
ing  nurse  in  the  blue  and  white  stripes,  like,  yet 
faintly  unlike,  the  stripes  which  his  wandering  gaze 
had  always  found  at  the  hospital. 
"He's  awake,"  said  the  nurse. 
The  lady's  voice  spoke,  quite  changed,  quite  com 
posed  and  cheerful :  "May  I  give  it  to  him,  please?" 
Johnny  sighed ;  he  knew  the  voice ;  it  was  only  the 
emotion  in  it  which  had  changed  it  for  him.    "My 
dear  boy !  my  dear  boy !"   And  a  tear.   Could  Mrs. 
Winslow  care  that  he  must  die?    He  felt  himself 
gently  lifted,  so  gently  yet  so  strongly;  the  rim  of 
a  glass  touched  his  lips  at  precisely  the  right  angle. 
He   drank   without   question.     "Thank  you,   Aunt 
Emma,"  he  said  and  closed  his  eyes.  It  was  the  old 


JOSIAH  WINSLOW'S  DAY  467 

name  which  he  had  given  her  years  ago,  before  she 
took  his  mother's  place  and  he  had  no  right  to  be 
fond  of  her.  What  a  mess  life  was!  Being  very 
pleasantly  tired,  however,  he  left  it  and  went  to 
sleep.  The  sun  grew  brighter  while  he  slept.  Its 
brightness  rested  on  the  nurse's  and  the  doctors' 
faces,  when  he  woke.  He  had  known  the  older  doc 
tor  ever  since  he  was  a  lad,  and  he  had  seen  the 
younger  man  at  his  father's  bedside. 

"Well,  Johnny-Ivan,"  said  the  old  doctor,  "ready 
for  something  to  eat  ?" 

"Did  they  kill  Dennis  Fogarty?"  said  Johnny. 

"By  all  good  rights  he  ought  to  be  dead,  but  he 
isn't.  Not  by  a  long  shot.  He'll  be  around  by  the 
time  you  get  out,  and  from  the  way  you're  doing 
that  will  be  pretty  quickly." 

"How  did  he  know—" 

"Oh,  he's  been  prowling  round  the  shops  ever 
since  he  had  to  leave  them,  like  a  lost  cat.  Mr. 
Hopkins  and  Hoffman  both  went  to  see  him,  and  it 
helped  him  more  than  medicine.  You  can  rest  your 
mind  about  him.  Drink  your  milk !" 

Obediently,  Johnny  quaffed  the  milk. 

"How  about  the  strike?"  said  he. 

"The  strike's  over ;  most  of  the  men  back.  You've 
saved  the  Old  Colony  Plow  Company  a  pretty 
penny,  young  man.  Now,  be  quiet  for  half  an  hour." 

"Then  may  I  ask  some  questions?" 

"Humph !  yes,  if  you  won't  get  excited." 

"I  won't.  But  I  have  to  ask  one  more.  Did  Billy 
Bates  get  back  from  Chicago?" 

"Yes,  and  did  as  much  as  the  National  Guard  to 
quiet  things." 


468  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

"How  many  men — " 

/That'll  do,"  interrupted  the  young  doctor,  "you 
are  not  going  to  go  over  the  whole  strike.  Shut  your 
eyes  for  half  an  hour  if  you  can't  sleep." 

Johnny  shut  his  eyes.  He  only  opened  them  once 
to  take  a  thermometer  in  his  mouth,  and  later  watch 
the  old  doctor  grin  over  it  by  the  window.  "Pulse 
down  to  eighty- four,  temperature  and  respiration 
normal.  Young  man,  you're  doing  fine!"  called  the 
doctor.  "Mrs.  Winslow,  I  congratulate  you."  He 
shook  hands  with  Johnny's  stepmother,  who  had 
just  entered  the  room. 

Johnny's  eyes  went  from  her  quiet  face  to  the 
little  picture  of  the  baby  whom  they  had  both  loved, 
and  then  to  his  father's  portrait;  almost  he  seemed 
to  feel  his  father's  hand  guiding  his  fingers  to  hers. 
He  could  almost  hear  his  father's  voice  begging  him 
never  to  quarrel  with  her.  He  turned  his  head  and 
looked  long  and  sadly  at  his  mother's  beautiful, 
weary  features.  But,  at  last,  he  faintly  smiled.  "You 
would  wish  it,  now,  I  know,  maman,  dearest/'  he 
was  thinking  as  his  eyes  went  to  Mrs.  Winslow,  and 
he  held  out  his  thin  hand.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you, 
Aunt  Emma,"  said  he. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Johnny,"  said  Mrs.  Wins- 
low  in  her  clear  tones. 

"Sensible  woman!"  one  doctor  hummed  to  the 
other,  in  the  hall ;  "perfectly  safe  to  leave  her  with 
him." 

The  sensible  woman  was  sitting  by  the  bedside, 
her  head  out  of  Johnny's  range  of  vision,  and  she 
was  very  quietly  wiping  a  tear  first  from  one  eye  and 
then  from  the  other,  smiling  all  the  time. 


,  JOSIAH  WINSLOW'S  DAY  469 

"Is  Amelia  Ann  all  right?"  asked  Johnny;  "and 
I  hope  no  harm  happened  to  Ally." 

"None  at  all;  I  think  she  destroyed  a  pattern  or 
two  by  stepping  on  them ;  they  put  her  in  the  foun 
dry  ;  but  she  is  unharmed.  Amelia  Ann  is  perfectly 
fit  and  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Peggy.  They  had 
some  difficulty  in  getting  her  out  of  the  room,  I  un 
derstand;  but  she  was  very  useful  there,  having 
summoned  the  fire  department  and  done  miscel 
laneous  telephoning,  to  order." 

"They  didn't  hurt  the  works  much  ?  The  fire  was 
put  out  ?" 

"Only  a  few  windows  broken.  The  fire  didn't 
amount  to  anything.  Dennis'  hose  had  done  good 
work." 

"I  hope  they  let  all  the  men  come  back,"  said 
Johnny  presently. 

"Billy  Bates  interceded  for  them;  yes,  they  are 
all  back — who  wanted  to  come." 

"Was  Tyler  killed?" 

Mrs.  Winslow  hesitated, — she  remembered  John 
ny's  old-time  softness  of  heart ;  but  Johnny  read  her 
halt  in  speech  aright,  and  spoke  before  she  could 
frame  a  subterfuge. 

"I'm  rather  sorry,"  he  said,  but  without  any  acute 
feeling;  "he  was  a  dandy  fighter." 

After  a  second,  he  started  another  line  of  ques 
tions.  Was  there  a — a  letter  found  in  his  inside 
pocket  or — or  any  papers?  But  here  Mrs.  Winslow 
was  prepared.  "I'll  see,"  she  said  glibly ;  "were  the 
papers  valuable?" 

"Only  to  me,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Johnny  with  a  dry 
smile. 


470  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

Presently  he  asked:  "How  is  Michael?  When 
can  I  see  Michael  ?" 

Mrs.  Winslow  promised  that  he  should  see  Mich 
ael  to-morrow. 

It  may  be  related,  here,  that  Michael  paid  him  the 
visit  on  the  day.  He  made  a  toilet  of  state  in  his 
new  caftan,  scrubbed  and  polished  and  brushed. 
Every  member  of  the  household  cautioned  him  to 
be  cheerful,  to  be  quiet  and  to  say  very  little.  Most 
politely,  even  gratefully  he  received  the  admonitions, 
promising  obedience.  When  the  word  came  to  him, 
he  tiptoed  from  the  house-door,  but  lost  some  of  the 
advantage  of  this  noiseless  entrance  by  tumbling 
over  a  chair  in  Johnny's  room.  He  fell  on  his  knees 
by  Johnny's  bed,  kissed  the  bedclothes,  kissed  the 
pillows,  kissed  Johnny's  hand,  sniffling  all  the  time 
and  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks  on  either  side 
of  a  smile  like  a  gargoyle's,  which  he  never  allowed 
to  fade.  To  every  question  he  answered  gospodi, 
batyushka,  quite  regardless  of  its  import,  and  he 
stayed  until  he  was  led  away  by  the  scandalized 
nurse,  whose  hand  he  insisted  on  kissing.  She  had 
intended  to  tell  him  he  could  not  come  again  for  a 
week,  but  after  this  tribute  of  a  humble  and  loyal 
heart,  she  relented  to  the  limit  of  three  days.  Such 
things  are  women ! 

But  this  was  to-morrow ;  to-day  Johnny  was  skirt 
ing  the  desire  of  his  heart.  He  asked  (carelessly) 
how  was  Miss  Rutherford.  Rather  tired,  but  very 
well,  Mrs.  Winslow  told  him ;  as  soon  as  he  was  a 
little  stronger  he  should  see  her. 

"You  wouldn't  mind  asking  her  just  to  step  by 
the  door,  would  you,  Aunt  Emma  ?"  asked  Johnny 


JOSIAH  WINSLOW'S  DAY  471 

in  his  old  wheedling  voice,  which  made  Mrs.  Wins- 
low  want  to  kiss  him.  "I  won't  say  one  word  to  her, 
not  one" 

So  Peggy  did  pass  by  the  door  and  throw  one  be 
wildering,  lovely  glance  as  she  passed,  and  that  was 
all  Johnny  saw  of  her  until  the  next  day.  The  next 
day  he  found  her  sitting  in  the  room,  in  a  far  corner. 
He  was  quite  content  merely  to  look  at  her,  happily. 
"When  you  are  stronger  you  can  speak  to  her,"  the 
nurse  promised.  He  grew  stronger,  fast;  so  fast 
that  one  day,  after  he  was  sitting  every  day  in  the 
big  chair,  he  began  to  talk  business.  He  had  thought 
it  all  out  in  his  mind.  He  had  even  mentioned 
something  of  it  to  Billy,  who  came  among  the  earli 
est  admitted,  and  announced  on  his  second  visit, 
with  simulated  ease,  but  a  glowing  face,  that  he  was 
going  to  be  a  married  man. 

"And  I'll  tell  you  who  helped  me  to  it,"  said  he. 
"Roger  Mack!  Bless  that  boy!  You  listen.  You 
can't  talk.  I  went  to  Darrell's  after  Roger  Mack, 
too.  I  suspected  a  nigger  in  that  wood-pile,  too.  The 
worst  was,  one  day,  after  you  were  hurt,  I  was  look 
ing  over  your  traps  a  bit  and  I  came  across  all 
Roger  Mack's  letters.  There  was  one  on  the  top 
written, — most  of  them  were  typed.  Of  course,  I 
didn't  read  a  word.  But,  Ivan,  I  wanted  to,  like 
the  devil !  I  did.  Because,  you  see,  that  handwriting 
I  knew;  it  was  the  handwriting  of — of  a  young 
lady — a  friend  of  mine.  Johnny,  I  felt  awfully 
queer  and  mean.  Because,  you  see,  I  had  rather 
sized  it  up  in  my  mind  that  Roger  Mack  was  Miss 
Rutherford;  but  if  it  was  Miss  Martin,  my  friend, 
why,  that  supposition  would  fit  all  the  facts  of  the 


472  THE   MAN   OF   THE   HOUR 

case  just  about  as  well,  and  I  was  sure  if — if  any 
girl  got  letters  from  you  I  wouldn't  have  a  ghost  of 
a  show1.  I  oughtn't  to  have,  either — " 

"Billy,  you  old  chump,  it  wasn't — and  you're  a 
better—" 

"I'm  not  and  I  know  it ;  but  you  keep  cool.  I  went 
to  my  friend,  and  I  opened  the  subject.  In  five  min 
utes  she  put  me  wise :  I  found  out  she  had  never 
read  a  letter  from  you,  and  only  written  half  a 
dozen  and — and — then — Johnny,  I  don't  know  how 
I  ever  did  it,  but  I  blurted  out  how  I  had  set  my 
heart  on  her  ever  since  I  was  a  gawky  boy ;  I  got  ex 
cited,  I  forgot  the  speech  I  had  been  making  up  for 
years,  I'm  awfully  afraid  I  forgot  to  speak  good 
grammar,  but" — Billy  was  on  his  feet,  swinging 
his  arms — "my  God,  wasn't  it  wonderful!  She 
didn't  mind,  she  said — she  said  she  preferred  me  to 
any  man — Say,  Johnny,  how  'm  I  ever  going  to  be 
half  as  big  a  man  as  she  thinks  I  am?" 

One  can  understand  that  this  conversation  gave 
Johnny  a  pleasant  half-hour;  but  he  told  Billy  that 
he  had  no  use  for  such  an  irrationally  ecstatic  being 
as  he  was,  for  a  business  adviser.  There  was  only  one 
other  person  whom  he  could  consult,  namely,  Mrs. 
Winter,  who  came  in  with  her  very  best  cards,  and 
recommended  Penelope's  Web  as  a  light  yet  engross 
ing  solace  for  the  sick-room.  Certain  obvious  rea 
sons  restrained  his  tongue  with  her;  not  until  he  had 
spoken  to  Mrs.  Winslow  could  he  take  a  decisive 
step.  Therefore,  one  day,  he  plunged  into  the  mat 
ter  in  his  direct  fashion.  "Aunt  Emma,  I'm  think 
ing  of  buying  some  Old  Colony  stock.  Aunty  Win 
ter  is  willing  to  lend  me  some  money,  and  I  think, 


JOSIAH  WINSLOW'S  DAY  473 

between  my  salary  and  the  dividends,  I  can  pay  for 
it  in  time.  But  I  wanted  to  tell  you  first." 

"Thank  you,  Johnny,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow — she 
seemed  to  have  a  curious  difficulty  in  speaking;  but 
her  voice  was  as  serene  as  usual,  when  she  did  speak 
— "I  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if — if  you 
needed  to  borrow  money.  But  you  don't.  You  have 
plenty  of  your  own." 

"How,  Aunt  Emma?"  said  Johnny  very  quietly. 
He  did  not  think  anything;  he  felt  of  a  sudden  a 
curious  awe  and  surprise,  the  sense  of  something 
coming  which  would  move  him,  but  what  it  was  he 
did  not  in  the  least  know.  "How,  Aunt  Emma?"  he 
said. 

She  rose  and  went  out  of  the  room.  She  did  not 
speak,  and  he  understood  that  the  reason  was  that 
she  couldn't,  for  the  moment,  speak  calmly.  In  a 
moment  she  returned,  carrying  a  letter  in  her  hand. 
She  had  regained  her  usual  composure,  but  her  face 
was  paler  than  Johnny's. 

"Johnny,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to  remember 
when  you  read  the  letter  that  if  we — your  father  and 
I — have  made  mistakes  in  our  dealing  with  you,  they 
were  made  out  of  love.  And  I  do  not  think  your 
father  did  make  a  mistake;  he  felt  that  you  must 
see  for  yourself  that  which  he  could  not  see  for 
you.  But  he  loved  you,  always,  more  than  you  can 
understand.  And  his  last  word,  his  last  thought, 
was  of  you.  You  won't  let  your  pride  defeat  his 
lifelong  hopes,  now,  will  you?" 

She  laid  the  letter  in  his  hand  and  turned;  but 
even  as  she  turned,  she  yielded  to  her  feelings  and 
came  back  to  give  him  the  first  caress  she  had  dared 


474  THE   MAN    OF   THE   HOUR 

to  give  him  openly  since  he  was  a  little  child.  She 
kissed  him  lightly  on  his  dark  curls  where  they 
touched  his  forehead,  saying  again  and  in  the  same 
tone :  "My  dear  boy !  My  dear  boy !" 

After  she  left  him  it  was  minutes  before  he  opened 
the  letter;  he  was  standing  again  by  his  father's 
bed ;  he  felt  the  touch  of  the  nerveless  hands  which 
had  been  so  strong,  and  he  heard  his  father's  voice : 
"There,  there,  little  Johnny,  let  papa  help  you 
climb !"  With  a  long  difficult  sigh,  he  opened  the 
letter.  This  is  what  he  read : 


My  dear  Son : 

When  you  read  my  will,  you  will  think  I  might 
be  more  fatherly,  maybe.  Maybe — I  hope  not,  you 
are  a  pretty  fair-minded  chap,  Johnny — you  will 
be  unjust  to  my  wife.  But  here  is  the  cause.  I  have 
been  going  over  it  for  years,  trying  to  find  a  way  out 
of  it  without  hurting  you.  I  can't  find  it.  There  isn't 
any.  The  only  way  for  you  to  find  that  the  ground 
is  hard,  is  to  get  a  fall.  You  won't  take  my  word 
for  it.  I  don't  blame  you.  A  man  has  to  do  what 
he  believes  is  right,  whatever  it  costs  him.  You  be 
lieve  a  lot  of  rotten  nonsense,  in  my  opinion,  but 
that  you've  got  to  find  out,  yourself.  All  I  can  do  is 
to  prevent  your  squandering  all  your  fortune  in 
finding  it  out.  A  hundred  thousand  is  a  good  deal 
of  money  to  pay  for  discovering  there  is  no  short 
cut  to  the  millennium ;  but  I  don't  believe  less  would 
satisfy  you.  My  only  worry,  son,  is  that  you'll  get 
some  knocks  on  your  heart  and  your  conscience 
which  no  money  is  worth.  I  can't  help  you,  there. 


JOSIAH  WINSLOW'S  DAY  475 

All  I  can  do  is  to  save  you  the  money,  so  you  can 
help  other  people  in  the  only  true,  sensible,  Ameri 
can  way,  by  giving  them  a  show  to  help  themselves. 
I  leave  the  fortune  you  would  have  had  to  your 
stepmother,  who  loves  you  truly,  and  whom  you  will 
truly  love  some  day,  in  trust.  So  soon  as  she  is  con 
vinced  that  you  can  manage  the  money  and  the  busi 
ness  (or  any  business — but  I  somehow  feel  you'll 
want  to  run  the  Old  Colony,  and  you  can  do  it!)  she 
will  give  you  a  hundred  thousand.  That  hundred 
thousand  I  feel  sure  you  won't  lose ;  so  you  will  in 
herit  your  fortune  all  right,  in  five  years.  Try 
again,  Johnny.  You'll  make  it  this  time.  If  in  your 
business  plans  you  should  need  more,  she'll  give  you 
more.  I  trust  you,  my  son;  you  are  going  to  be  a 
better  business  man  than  I  was.  You've  got  my 
head ;  but  head  is  not  going  to  be  all  the  great  busi 
ness  man  of  the  future  needs ;  he  will  have  to  have 
a  heart  or  he  can't  understand  and  manage  his  men ; 
you  have  your  mother's  heart,  and  you  will  have 
learned  to  know  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  the 
American  workingman;  you'll  know  him  and  re 
spect  him  and  you  won't  be  fooled  about  him.  And 
you  can  help  him  and  he  will  help  you  better  than  I 
ever  could  manage. 

Johnny,  son,  I  expect  before  very  long  I  shall  see 
your  mother.  I  hope  she  will  forgive  me ;  whatever 
I  have  to  forgive  her,  I  forgave,  long  ago.  You  will 
have  to  make  up  for  any  mistakes  we  have  made. 
All  our  lives  we  both  tried  to  win  you.  I  guess  in  the 
end  we'll  both  succeed,  and  be  reconciled. 
Your  affectionate  father, 

Josiah  C.  Winslow. 


476  THE  MAN   OF  THE  HOUR 

P.  S.  I  don't  believe  I  ever  told  you,  son,  how 
glad  I  was  you  were  so  fond  of  your  little  sister; 
I'll  give  her  your  love,  shan't  I  ?  Somehow,  I  guess 
I'll  meet  them  all,  and  I  think  a  good  deal  about  it. 
I  get  a  great  deal  of  comfort  out  of  it,  too.  There's 
another  thing.  Your  stepmother  has  a  notion  that 
you  will  marry  Peggy.  That's  right.  She's  the  girl 
I  should  pick  out  for  you,  myself.  But  maybe  it  will 
be  another  girl.  Whoever  it  is,  you  can  trust  Emma 
Winslow  to  do  the  right  thing  by  her  and  by  little 
Peggy*  too.  It  has  been  a  big  comfort  to  me,  some 
how,  writing  this  letter.  Big.  Be  good  to  your  step 
mother,  Johnny,  won't  you?  I  hope  I  can  manage 
to  get  around  to  see  you  when  you  read  this.  Don't 
feel  too  bad  about  your  nonsense,  after  you  get  over 
it ;  you're  a  fine  fellow,  Johnny ;  I  am  proud  of  you. 

As  Johnny's  wet  eyes  made  out  the  last  word 
through  their  blur,  he  lifted  them  and  was  aware  of 
Peggy  in  the  doorway.  If  she  had  meant  to  go  at 
the  sight  of  his  tears,  the  arms  he  unconsciously  ex 
tended  were  enough ;  she  came  straight  to  him,  and, 
still  holding  his  father's  letter,  he  clasped  her  tightly 
while  they  cried  together,  comforting  each  other, 
as  they  had  comforted  each  other  in  their  childish 
griefs.  It  was  Peggy  who  spoke  first : 

"I  got  the  letter,  Jo'nivan." 

"And  you'll  help  me,  Peggy?" 

"Of  course,  Jo'nivan." 

"And  speak  to  me  again?" 

"I  reckon  I'll  have  to  if— if  I'm—" 

"Going  to  marry  me?  I  reckon  you  will,  dear. 
Oh,  Peggy!" 


JOSIAH  WINSLOW'S  DAY 

"Jo'nivan,  you'll  do  awful  things  to  yourself  if 
you  try  to — to  be  so  ridiculous.  Put  your  arms 
down  this  minute.  Oh,  Jo'nivan,  look !" 

She  pointed  with  her  slim,  white  hand.  The  glory 
of  sunlight  reflected  from  the  river  flooded  the  por 
trait  on  the  wall  of  his  mother's  writing-room  where 
he  sat,  flooded  almost  equally  the  delicate  and  beau 
tiful  face  on  the  wall  of  the  chamber  beyond. 

"Oh,  Jo'nivan,"  whispered  Peggy  in  a  voice  of 
tender  awe,  "they  are  both  smiling!" 


THE   END 


A  LIST  */ IMPORTANT  FICTION 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


A  ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  CHIVALRY 

M    THE  LAW     v 
OF  THE  LAND 


Of  Miss  Lady,  whom  it  involved  in  mystery,  and  of 

John  Eddring,  gentleman  of  the  South, 

who  read  its  deeper  meaning 

By  EMERSON  HOUGH,  Author  of  The  Mississippi  Bubble 


Romantic,  unhackneyed,  imaginative,  touched 
with  humor,  full  of  spirit  and  dash. 

Chicago  Record  Herald 

So  virile,  so  strong,  so  full  of  the  rare  qualities  of 
beauty  and  truth.  New  Tork  Press 

A  powerful  novel,  vividly  presented.  The  action 
is  rapid  and  dramatic,  and  the  romance  holds  the 
reader  with  irresistible  force. 

Detroit  Tribune 

Pre-eminently  superior  to  any  literary  creation  of 
the  day.  Its  naturalness  places  it  on  the  plane  of 
immortality.  New  Tork  American 

Illustrated  by  Arthur  I.  Keller 
I  zmo,  cloth,  price,  $1.50 


The  Bobbs- Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis 


A  THOROUGHBRED  GIRL 


ZELDA  DAMERON 


By  MEREDITH  NICHOLSON 
Author  of  The  Main  Chance 


Zelda  Dameron  is  in  all  ways  a  splendid  and 
successful  story.  There  is  about  it  a  sweetness,  a 
wholesomeness  and  a  sturdiness  that  will  commend 
it  to  earnest,  kindly  and  wholesome  people. 

Boston  Transcript 

The  whole  story  is  thoroughly  American.  It  is 
lively  and  breezy  throughout — a  graphic  description 
of  a  phase  of  life  in  the  Middle  West. 

Toledo  Blade 


A  love  story  of  a  peculiarly  sweet  and  attractive 
sort, — the  interpretation  of  a  girl's  life,  the  revelation 
of  a  human  heart.  New  Orleans  Picayune 


With  portraits  of  the  characters  in  color 

By  John  Cecil  Clay 
izmo,  cloth,  price,  $1.50 


The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis 


LOVE   IN   LIVERY 


>THE  MAN 
ON  THE  BOX 


By  HAROLD  MAcGRATH 
Author  of  The  Puppet  Crown  and  The  Grey  Cloak 


This  is  the  brightest,  most  sparkling  book  of  the 
season,  crisp  as  a  new  greenback,  telling  a  most 
absorbing  story  in  the  most  delightful  way.  There 
never  was  a  book  whch  held  the  reader  more 
fascinated.  Albany  Times-Union 

The  best  novel  of  the  year. 

Seattle  Post- Intelligencer 

Satire  that  stops  short  of  caricature,  humor  that 
never  descends  to  burlesque,  sentiment  that  is  too 
wholesome  and  gennine  to  veige  upon  sentimentality, 
these  are  reasons  enough  for  liking  The  Man  on  the 
Box,  quite  aside  from  the  fact  thas  it  is  a  refreshing 
novelty  in  fiction.  New  York  Globe 

Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher 
1 2mo,  cloth,  price,  £  1 . 50 


The    Bobbs-Merrill    Company,    Indianapolis 


HEARTS,    GOLD   AND   SPECULATION 


BLACK   FRIDAY 


By  FREDERIC  S.  ISHAM 
Author  of  The  Strollers  and  Under  the  Rose 


There  is  much  energy,  much  spirit,  in  this 
romance  of  the  gold  corner.  Distinctly  an  opulent 
and  animated  tale.  New  Tork  Sun 


Black  Friday  fascinates  by  its  compelling  force 
and  grips  by  its  human  intensity.  No  better  or 
more  absorbing  novel  has  been  published  in  a  decade. 

"Newark  Advertiser 


The  love  story  is  handled  with  infinite  skill.  The 
pictures  of  "the  street' '  and  its  thrilling,  pulsating 
life  are  given  with  rare  power. 

Boston  Herald 


Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher 
I2mo,  cloth,  price,  $1.50 


The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis 


WANTED: 

A  COOK 


BY   ALAN    DALE 


An  uproariously  funny  comedy -novel  of  a  self- 
conscious  couple  in  contact  with  tiu  servant  ques 
tion.  Their  ludicrous  predicaments  with  then- 
cooks  are  described  with  a  light,  farcial  quality  and 
a  satire  that  never  fail  to  entertain. 

"  A  good  story  well  told.  In  every  sentence  a 
hearty  laugh  and  many  an  irrepressible  chuckle  of 
mirth."  New  York  American 

Bound  in  decorated  cloth,  izmo,  £1.50 


The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis 


FULL   OF   DAINTY   CHARM 

THE  GIRL  AND 
THE  KAISER 

BY  PAULINE  BRADFORD  MACKIE 


"An  amusing  love  story,  which  is  certain  to  win 
instant  favor.  Fresh,  enthusiastic,  and  daintily 
lyrical."  Philadelphia  Item 

"A   charming    little    book,   artistically  made,  is 
'  The  Girl  and  the  Kaiser' ;  one  that  can  be  recom 
mended  for  pleasing  entertainment  without  reserve." 
St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat 

Here  is  a  beautiful  and  delightfully  seasonable 
volume  that  everybody  will  want.  The  story  is  a 
Bubbling  romance  of  the  German  imperial  court 
with  an  American  girl  heroine. 

Decorated  and  illustrated  in  color  by 

John  Cecil  Clay 
izmo,  cloth,  $1.50 

Thr  Bobbs- Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis 


A  STORY  OF  THE  SIMPLE  LIFE 

THE 

HAPPY  AVERAGE 

By  BRAND  WHITLOCK 
Author  of  The  1 3th  District  and  Her  Infinite  Variety 


Mr.  Whitlock  has  done  more  than  simply  repeat 
his  earlier  success.  He  has  achieved  a  new  one. 
In  The  Happy  Average  he  has  voiced  a  deep-seated 
human  sympathy  for  the  unheroic.  Life 

A  most  delightful  romance  that  is  as  fresh  as  the 
flowers  of  May.  Pittsburg  Leader 


As  an  example  of  a  good,  healthy,  entertaining 
and  human  story,  The  Happy  Average  must  be 
given  a  place  in  the  front  rank. 

Nashville  American 

Not  only  the  best  book  that  has  come  from  Mr. 
Whitlow's  pen,  but  a  really  noteworthy  achieve 
ment  in  fiction.  Chicago  Tribune 

I2mo,  cloth,  price,  $1.50 


The  Bobbs-Merrill  Companv,  Indianapolis 


THE  LIFE  AND  LOVES  OF  LORD  BYRON 

THE 
CASTAWAY 


"Three  great  men  ruined  in  one  year — a  king,  a  cad  and  a 
castaway. " — Byron. 

BY  HALLIE  ERMINIE  RIVES 
Author  of  Hearts  Courageous 


Lord  Byron's  personal  beauty,  his  brilliancy,  his 
genius,  his  possession  of  a  title,  his  love  affairs,  his 
death  in  a  noble  cause,  all  make  him  the  most  mag 
netic  figure  in  English  literature.  In  Miss  Rives' s 
novel  the  incidents  of  his  career  stand  out  in  ab 
sorbing  power  and  enthralling  force. 

The  most  profoundly  sympathetic,  vivid  and  true 
portrait  of  Byron  ever  drawn. 
Calvin  Dill  Wilson,  author  of  Byron — Man  and  Poet 

Dramatic  scenes,  thrilling  incidents,  strenuous 
events  follow  one  another;  pathos,  revenge  and 
passion ;  a  strong  love ;  and  through  all  these,  under 
all  these,  is  the  poet,  the  man,  George  Gordon. 

Grand  Rapids  Herald 

With  eight  illustrations  in  color  by 

Howard  Chandler  Christy 
1 2mo,  cloth,  price,  $  I .  oo  everywhere 

The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis 


A  BOOK  TO  MAKE  THE  SPHINX  LAUGH 

IN  THE  BISHOP'S 
"•    CARRIAGE     ' 

BY  MIRIAM  MICHELSON 


From  the  moment  when,  in  another  girl's  chin 
chilla  coat,  Nance  Olden  jumps  into  the  unknown 
carriage,  and,  snuggling  up  to  the  solemn  owner, 
calls  him  "Daddy,*'  till  she  makes  her  final  bow, 
a  happy  wife  and  a  triumphant  actress,  she  holds 
your  fancy  captive  and  your  heart  in  thrall. 

If  jaded  novel  readers  want  a  new  sensation,  they 
will  get  it  here.  Chicago  Tribune 

For  genuine,  unaffected  enjoyment,  read  the  ad 
ventures  of  this  dashing  desperado  in  petticoats. 

Philadelphia  Item 

It  is  beguiling,  bewitching,  bristling  with  origi 
nality  ;  light  enough  for  the  laziest  invalid  to  rest  his 
brain  over,  profound  enough  to  serve  as  a  sermon 
to  the  humanitarian.  San  Francisco  Bulletin 

Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher 
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The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  Indianapolii 


AN  ANGEL   OF   THE   TEXAS   PLAINS 


HULDAH 

Proprietor  of  the  Wagon-Tire  House  and  Genial 
Philosopher  of  the  Cattle  Country 

BY  ALICE  MAcGOWAN 

and 

GRACE  MxcGOWAN  COOKE 


A  book  that  will  brighten  your  hope,  broaden 
your  charity,  and  keep  you  mellow  with  its  humor. 

Minneapolis  Journal 

It  is  cram  full  of  human  nature.  There  is  nobody 
like  Aunt  Huldah  in  any  other  book,  and  it  is  a  good 
thing  that  she  got  into  this  one.  Washington  Times 

The  book  with  its  western  breezes,  homely  phi 
losophy,  queer  characters  and  big  hearts,  is  almost 
as  exhilarating  as  the  heroine  must  have  been  herself. 

Baltimore  Herald 

Aunt  Huldah  is  the  kind  of  a  woman  loved  by 
the  whole  world,  and  the  novel  is  the  most  attractive 
since  the  days  of  David  Harum.  Indianapolis  Star 

izmo,  cloth,  price,  $1.50 


The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis 


For  the  man  who  can  rejoice  at  a  book  that  is  not  trivial. 
For  the  man  who  feels  the  power  of  Egypt's  marvelous  past; 
For  the  man  who  is  stirred  at  heart  by  the  great  scenes  of 

the  Bible; 
For  the  man  who  likes  a  story  and  knows  when  it  is  good. 


THE  YOKE 

A  Romance  of  the  Days  when  the  Lord  Redeemed 

the  Children  of  Israel  from  the 

Bondage  of  Egypt 


A  theme  that  captures  the  imagination:  Israel's 
deliverance  from  Egypt. 

Characters  famous  for  all  time :  Moses,  the 
Pharaoh,  Prince  Rameses. 

Scenes  of  natural  and  supernatural  power;  the 
finding  ot  the  signet,  the  turning  of  the  Nile  into 
blood,  the  passage  of  the  Red  Sea. 

A  background  of  brilliant  color:  the  rich  and 
varied  life  of  Thebes  and  Memphis. 

A  plot  of  intricate  interest:  a  love  sto,y  of 
enduring  beauty.  Such  is  "The  Yoke." 

Ornamental  cloth  binding.    626  pages 
Price  $1.50 


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ART     AND     ARIZO  N  A 

A  GINGHAM 
ROSE 


BY  ALICE  WOODS  ULLMMN 
Author  of  Edges 


The  author  has  a  strange  power  of  looking  into 
the  workings  of  her  own  mind  and  heart,  and  of  setting 
down  what  she  finds  there  with  freedom,  humor  and 
justice.  The  result  is  "something  new  under  the 
sun" — a  book  with  the  tang  of  originality.  Nothing 
could  be  more  refreshing  than  this  story  of  a  girl 
who  turned  a  cad  into  a  man  and  a  man  into  a  hero. 

Bizarre,  fantastic,  intensely  individual,  bright  and 
interesting,  with  characters  that  have  a  trick  of  saying 
and  doing  unexpected  things.  Washington  Times 

A  remarkable  book,  sustained  in  power  and  inter 
est,  strong  in  its  characterization  and  picturesque  in 
its  treatment  of  life.  It  is  human,  palpitating  with 
reality,  tensely  alive.  Harper's  Weekly 

Frontispiece  by  the  author 
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A  ROMANCE  OF   LOVE  AND  POLITICS 

THE 
PLUM   TREE 

A  New  Novel 

BT  DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 
Author  of  "The  Cost,'*  "Golden  Fleece,"  Etc. 

In  this  new  novel  the  author  of  "  The  Cost  " 
sounds  a  trumpet  call  to  American  patriotism  and 
integrity. 

First  and  last  "The  Plum  Tree  "  is  a  love  story 
of  the  highest  order — interesting,  ennobling,  puri 
fying. 

Senator  Depew  says:  "Well  written  and  dra 
matic,  as  might  be  expected  from  the  pen  of 
Phillips." 

Senator  Frye  says:  "  A  wonderful  story  of 
American  political  life." 

Senator  Beveridge  siys:    "  Plot,   action,   color, 

vitality,  make  '  The  Plum  Tree '  thrilling. ' ' 

"  .iijy 
Drawings  by  E.  M.  Ashe 

Bound  in  Cloth,  izmo,  $1.50 
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"AN   ADMIRABLE    TALE." 

THE 

MILLIONAIRE 
m     BABY 

BY  ANNA  KATHARINE  GREEN 
Author  of  "The  Filigree  Ball" 

"This  stirring,  this  absorbing,  this  admirable 
tale."  New  York  Sun 

"A  thrillingly  sensational  piece  of  fiction — 'The 
Millionaire  Baby. ' ' '  St.  Paul  Pioneer  Press 

"  Certain  to  keep  you  up  to  the  wee  sma' 
hours.'*  Chicago  Journal 

"  Handled  with  consummate  dexterity,  adroit 
ness  and  fertility  of  invention."  Brooklyn  Times 

"  A  detective  story  that  is  a  detective  story." 

Judge 

(<  One  reads  from  page  to  page  with  breathless 
interest."  New  York  Times 

"  The  reader  is  kept  in  a  state  of  tiptoe  expec 
tation  from  chapter  to  chapter. ' '  Boston  Herald 

"Anna  Katharine  Green  shows,  in  'The  Mil 
lionaire  Baby,'  a  fertility  of  brain  simply  marvel 
ous.  ' '  Philadelphia  Item 

Beautifully  Illustrated  by  A.  I.  Keller 
izmo,  $1.50 

The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE  *T 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROX^D 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


AUG 1     1962 


LD  21-100m-2  '55 


General  Library 
University  of  California 


Berkeley 


YB  73B74 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


